The Scarlet Sonata
by Bert the Nomad
Summary: 10 years have passed since the Titans split. 10 years of change, space, and time doing what time does best. What once was had faded, what was lost was never found, and for Cyborg, a love that could have been will never be. Still, not all have forgotten...
1. Chapter 1 Prelude in A

Author's Note: Welcome to the 'Scarlet Sonata', a twisting, darker tale taking place a good many years after my previous story, 'When Tears Run Red'. Do not fear if you haven't read it though, for you don't have to know what AWESOME stuff went down in 'When Tears Run Red' to understand this story. It'll involve mostly my two favorite Titans, Raven and Cyborg. This isn't necessarily a romance between the two, mind you. Oh, and a friendly tip of the hat to anyone who's read 'WTRR' and is now reviewing this story. I truly appreciate having you reading it. As always, this story is dark, gory, intriguing, and maybe a little heart-wrenching at times. Please enjoy and please leave a review!

His left eye fluttered open…circled around the room once, twice…then shut again.

_Please God…_

There was no light…he was stuck in that same bitter darkness again. The darkness of the dreams you can never remember. That same eye-shut blackness he'd awaken to for three days now. Had it been three days? Four? Five even? Hell, he didn't know anymore.

The lights only came on when _it_ came back…when _it_ came to visit…and sometimes, _it_ didn't even bother with the lights.

_Oh sweet God… _

By now he'd put everything he had left into the possibility that it could all be a dream.

It _had _to be a dream.

He didn't move for risk of feeling duct tape latching his arms to the arm of the sleek, greasy metal chair, didn't breath for risk of smelling the sweet, damp scent of human whither that had enveloped his body like a cloud of flies, didn't dare even listen to anything else but his thoughts for the risk of hearing the whistling…that high-pitched, childish, pitch that seemed so innocent…like a Looney Toon character…like a damn song-bird. That whistle that he heard right before the lights came on. But it was never a bird that came down here to visit him…down to this hell-hole that he'd been rotting in. A hole with no food, little water…no light.

He didn't do anything.

Cuz it was all just a dream….

…but he still was hungry.

It'd been four days since that burger and fries at McDonald's, right? Had it really been that long since he'd even eaten anything? Three minutes without air, three days without water, three weeks without food. For some reason he couldn't stop thinking about that. That he'd have to take three whole more weeks of _this_ before his innards shrivel up enough for him to finally keel over and die.

Heh. Maybe, if he was lucky, _it'd_ stop making little water visits and leave him to dry up like a forgotten grape. That'd cut his waiting time in half, wouldn't it?

Or, yeah, better yet, maybe it'd simply step through that door with a sawn off shot-gun and make a sunrise out of his brains on the far wall. He wouldn't even have to wait for the lights…

Jesus, he was hungry…

He'd bitten apart lips by day three, nibbled his tongue down by day four… the only thing keeping him from having a go at his shoulders is the fact that his strength left him at day five.

God knows what he must look like by now. Hair caked onto his scalp, chin smothered in dried blood, body so frail a breeze could bend it…

But no.

It's all a dream, right?

Right?

When those lights come on he'd be in his room again, sitting at his desk, looking at the bulletin board on the wall like had been just a week ago. Piano on Thursday, date with Tina on Friday, Mom's birthday on Saturday…

No responsibilities….

No worries….

No _need_ for worries…

_Don't let me wake up here…anywhere but here…please God…_

His left eye fluttered open again, circling around in its socket like a fish in a glassy red bowl. The room was still dark, the lack of his glasses and the lack of light making it impossible to see anything. He never knew the world could be this dark.

_Anywhere but here…I beg you…I'll do anything…please god please…_

He remembered bits and snippets of the room from the few occasions when _it_ had turned on the single naked bulb forever swinging overhead. The room was small, old-fashioned. The walls lacking wallpaper and the insulation slowly folding downwards like fawning lichen from the side of a tree. Large, rattling overhead rafters made out the ceiling which constantly spewed fine, short waterfalls of dust, dirt and god knows what else down into the room. A single, flaky door sat directly at the far end of the room almost mockingly, as if to ensure he knew that there was no way he'd be walking through those doors again.

It looked a great deal like the basement to his grandfather's house.

Hmmm.

Maybe that's why he's been dreaming about it for all this time.

Yeah….that must be it.

His body remained motionless, his breath still held between pursed, stubby lips. Despite his efforts, though, he could feel the worn, raw skin of his wrists, the dull and unfathomable hunger sucking on his ribs.

…the subtle feeling of helplessness.

…the sly, secret knowledge that he was going to die down here.

_Let me wake up at home…please…anywhere but here…anywhere in the world but here…this is a dream...always was...always was...  
_

If there had been any other noises down there, maybe he'd of heard it…but by now he had trained himself to detect that sound. Faintly, there was a soft, horribly recognizable thump, as if a door from above the indeterminable distance between Jump City and his own personal purgatory was slammed shut with just the familiar force to ensure that _it_ had come back.

He finally let both his eyes open.

_Oh God…no…please…no… _

There was another thump…and then another, each one whispering under the door just loud enough to make him strain his ears. Footfalls, big, heavy, leisurely footfalls.

_Its_ footfalls.

They became louder, each one sounding like a heavy armful of laundry being dropped onto a hard floor.

_Thump _

_Thump _

"Oh, God! Please _No_! I don't _wanna_ wake up here!" His thoughts finally escaped through a mucous wallowed throat, his hands yanking desperately upwards only to rewarded with a raw callous stinging around his wrists. The tape was still there…he was still down in hell, unable to wake up.

As the tenth step sounded, so did the shrill pitch of a playful whistle. It was a happy whistle; a bulging cheek, phony, type of happy. It grew louder, growing in unison with the steps, the tone becoming merrier and quicker.

Who the hell could whistle like that here?

Who the hell could possibly be that happy?

Nobody was that happy anymore. Not a single person in the world today would ever be so happy as to whistle like a god-damn cartoon character, skipping along with his shoulders bobbing with every step. Nobody was that happy….nobody loved life that much…

The steps stopped directly outside the door, a slow, painful squeal coming from the knob as it twisted slowly open. The outside of the room was almost just as dark as the room he was in now, the darkness outside just light enough to silhouette a huge, square figure in the doorway. In either of his hands was something different. Something other than the customary bucket of water he normally brought. A bag…a big duffel bag. It rattled slightly as the figure slowly stepped into the room, as if gardening tools were rattling around in there. The whistling never stopped, even for a breath.

"Please! Please don't! I don't wanna wake up here! Anywhere but here! This is a dream! This is a dream! Let me out of here!" He screamed. He thrashed. He rattled his head until the room spun and his skull throbbed.

But nothing made the frame go away. Nothing he screamed, nothing he cried, nothing he prayed could save him now.

This wasn't a dream.

It never was.

The door slowly closed again as Nathaniel Howards let out one last, wailing screech which abruptly ended as the lock clicked shut.

Ending Author's Note: Well, there we have it. Prepare for a real mind-boggling mystery this time folks! Take care!


	2. Chapter 2 The Blue Danube

Author's Note: Well, this is chapter two. This chapter pretty much brings you up to speed on the current situation of the titans. Please read! Please Review! Please enjoy yourselves so I don't go to bed doubting my existence like I normally do! Just a friendly heads up…this story is not for the faint of heart.

Things change.

That's just how it is.

Things…change.

Usually, you don't realize it. Usually, time, life, and that cup of coffee Mr. Ferguson asks you to fetch him every single day keeps your eyes off the slow little adjustments in your life and on that one, single idealistic goal you give yourself once the golden years of youth have rounded your edges.

Every so often though, you find yourself just noticing. It doesn't happen very often, nor in a specific place but it does occur. Alone at the dinner table…walking down a crowded street...a pause in a conversation. Just small little moments that remind you of what was once experienced and now was memory, susceptible to forgetfulness, doubt and fabrication.

Childhood memories…

Loved ones now gone…

Experience never again able to be experienced...

People say that it's good to remember such things…to acknowledge them, keep them close to your heart and….a bunch of other useless proverbs said by people who've never actually **done** it.

Truthfully though, Victor Stone was no longer a big fan of nostalgic reminiscence. Things changed weather you liked it or not...it's like watching a movie at a theatre. You can boo, hiss and whine all you want but the movie isn't going to change its ending because of one wise-cracking member in the audience.

Truthfully, though, those wistful little moments of nostalgic reminiscence, however, are just as inevitable as the changes they recollect upon, so it was pretty useless to try and avoid them. That little life lesson had made itself very clear to Victor Stone, or, Mr. Stone to his co-workers. Now that the Titan's were finished…well, there wasn't really much else for Mr. Stone to do _but_ recollect on his days of glory, youth, and seemingly endless amounts of money.

Those days when he was known as Cyborg…

Tall, muscular...robotic…

Member of the Teen Titans…

But…well…nothing lasted forever. Things changed. Things _really_ changed. Time passed and soon the Teen Titan's weren't teens anymore. Over time, Beast Boy spent more time shaving than crime-fighting, Starfire began 'filling out' her uniform and Robin's pants were having an increasingly more difficult time hiding the fact that, yes, he was getting older. And then…there was Raven.

Raven…

Jesus, just the sound of her name was enough to get him all melancholy. She'd been the one who'd changed the most of all…who made it damn near impossible for herself to keep up the day-job of being a superhero.

She'd given birth to a healthy, baby girl little over ten years ago.

He could spend hours thinking on the discombobulated trials they entire team had to go through as the baby progressed...finally leading up to that one insane night when Raven's child decided to make its debut right there in the middle of the tower with the rest of the team scrambling about like ants. It was watching a bunch of children gathered around a broken vase throwing confused, fearful words between their ranks. Neither knowing what to do next…willing to follow almost any idea that comes up. He could remember it now…

_Cyborg! Cyborg! _

_What is it? _

_Raven's water just broke! _

_What? _

_She just sent me up here to get you! Robin's with her right now! What do we do? I've never delivered a baby before! Robin says that the baby's ready to come out! It's absolutely disgusting! I don't know what to do! _

_Tell her I'll be right down, I'll call for help. _

_Don't worry about that, got that covered. Let's go. _

_You called for a doctor? _

_…Uh…I was sorta worried so I just called everyone. _

_……Whose everyone? _

Yeesh, what a mess _that_ one had been.

By the time the time Raven was crowning, every single honorary titan was showing up at the door like carolers in full battle attire…only to find a pained, red-faced Raven splayed on the floor with Cyborg's hand crushed in her grip, Starfire trying to teach her a Tameranian equivalent to Lamaze breathing, and a sweaty, blushing Robin positioned between her legs, his hands held out in front of him like a catcher, not knowing what the hell he was doing.

And somehow…it all came out all right. Just like it always did. Raven had her baby in the presence of over twelve red-faced, discombobulated teens right there in the living room of Titan's Tower.

…and Cyborg couldn't stop laughing…

But that was over ten years ago.

Things changed after that…things changed.

Raven could no longer leave the Tower after her daughter was born…and really…nobody else could either. With this new, unseen weight suddenly pulling down on the titans, it wasn't hard for the press to finally put two and two together and start pushing headlines faster than the team could put a stop to it. Microphones were shoved into the face of any titan, honorary or otherwise, as soon as they made a public appearance and it wasn't soon after that rumors as to whom the father was started circulating around. Over fifty percent said Robin with Beast Boy coming up in close second and Cyborg coming up dead last with a measly 19 percent.

Luckily, new heroes started to arise across the city and were eager…_very_ eager…to lend the titans their assistance. Cyborg just supposed it was just the way the world recycled its supply of superheroes. One strange meteorite falls in some kids backyard and the next thing you know, he's wearing a mask and flying around. Initially, that's how Cyborg thought the superhero business would be. Masks, justice, and a lot of unasked questions.

Boy, had he been wrong.

As it turns out, there were a lot more strings being pulled in the work of superheroes than the public would ever care to know. Lawyers, law, government…all one big mumbo jumbo administrative mess with shiny shoes and sleek black coats. A type of mess that a group of super-powered idealistic adolescents would have absolutely no interest in. Fortunately, the titans had made friends with powerful people (Thanks mostly in part to the black knight back in Gotham who still, despite his protests, kept a distinctive eye out for his young ward) and those big names and big bucks were enough to keep the team together without getting into court cases and lawsuits.

The titans slowly brought this new group of adolescents under their wing…showing them the ropes and the 'do's' and 'don't's' of city-protection. It took the team a while before they realized they were teaching the next generation…their replacements. The city was dropping their own subtle hints that they thought the titans should throw in the towel and hang up the capes as their twenties drew closer. Cyborg had seen how the spotlight was veering away from them and the dreaded cane was slowly bobbing towards them from stage left.

He'd seen the end coming…and there wasn't anything he could do about it.

To be honest, it was the one thing in all his years as a defender of justice that actually scared him.

The final blow to the titans occurred less than five years ago when Robin's old mentor was mortally wounded back in Gotham. Getting a little too old for his work, it seemed. As soon as Robin received the message he was gone. Not a word…not a single goodbye…just gone…just like Robin. It'd been less than a week after that before Starfire went looking for him…and it'd been two years since the remaining titans have heard from her either.

This, combined with the new, eager, and youthful group waiting on their doorstep, the silent prompting nudge of the city, and Raven's baby girl finally pressured the remaining titans to announce retirement after nearly ten years of service to the city.

Problem was…they were still young, relatively speaking. Your twenty fourth birthday is hardly the best time to quite your day job.

Now that they weren't the city's superheroes anymore the big bucks stopped coming in and, very quickly, the titans found themselves overshadowed by the _new_ titans who's flashy outfits, youthful bodies, and good-Samaritan view on life was very quickly filling the void they have left. There is nothing a city loves to see more than a hero falling is a hero replaced…and that's exactly what happened. Had the Titan's disappeared altogether there might have been something more than a few hat-tips and the head-line of one or two newspapers to acknowledge their leave. Unfortunately…the curtain call has passed and the crowd was already hushed for the next performance.

Now…the remaining Titans were on their own again.

No all-expenses paid tower, no supply of state-of-the-art gadgets, no slick guys in slick suits paying the bills…

"Hey, Stone."

No T-car, no free food, no public recognition…

"_Stone_!"

No bad-guys to fight, no world-wide threats, no privacy…

"God Damn, it Stone, snap out of it!"

"Huh?"

Suddenly, Cyborg was once again back in his cubicle…the fading voices of his memories echoing away inside his head, replaced instead with the sound of ringing telephones, several raised voices, and a muffled bit of music wafting over from the workspaces surrounding his. He glanced up. Positioned over the top of his cubicle, smoking absently, a handful of papers waving back and forth in front of his face…was Mister Harris.

He was a shrewd man. On the ball, effective, smart…but at the same time hardnosed, calloused, and eternally quick-tempered. He looked like he was at least forty years out of date with his tweed jacket, gigantic cigar, shiny black shoes, and a collection of wispy grey hairs combed to a great extent over a liver-spotted balding scalp.

There was a sure-fire way to tell his moods mostly because there was only one to choose from;

Pissed off.

Now was no exception; his cigar was receding a half inch with every breath he took between those flaring bull nostrils and pursed, lemon like lips. Cyborg quickly raised his head, wheeling himself back from his computer.

"Yes Mister Harris? Is there something you need?"

Mister Harris didn't respond right off; he never did whenever he wanted to know he'd caught an employee slaking off again. Slowly removing the cigar from his mouth and slowly twirling it between dry, lumpy fingers, Cyborg's boss lowered his head, scrutinizing Cyborg over his big, shiny, T.V. screen like glasses.

Here it comes...

"Y'know what, son?" He grinned. "Have I ever told you just why I hired yah?"

_Only every damn day you tweedy old fart._

"No Mister Harris…you haven't."

The cigar continued to spin in his fingers, his big, thick, ugly spectacles glinting in the fluorescent lights overhead. "I hired you out of strict repayment. You saved my son's life once when you were in the business. And mind you that is the _only_ reason you're still in this building. But one thing you have to get into that thick metal head of yers' is that you _ain't_ a superhero anymore…nor will yah ever again…so don't expect that you're gonna be able to just sit back and watch fer burglars. You work. You work hard! Just like everybody else does! Got it? You don't know how hard it is to keep the rest of the employees happy when there's a robot in the office with 'em! Don't ferget that I can have you on the street just like that if I catch you slackin' off again!"

"Yes _sir_, sorry sir."

"So say it."

A pause.

"Say what sir?"

"Say whatcher name is."

"….My name is Victor Stone."

"Say whatcher job is."

"I'm a calculator."

"Say that you're happy to leave it as such."

"Very. Sir."

Mister Harris frowned…just like he did every time he looked at him. He was frowning, but Cyborg could tell the old fart just loved telling him the same thing over and over again. Most likely made him feel more powerful. Having an ex-superhero to boss around must be something every business tycoon dreams of.

Cyborg glanced up. Found a grin. "Won't happen again, Mr. Harris! Promise!"

Mister Harris said nothing, leaving Cyborg to hold his expression until the handful of papers was tossed absently into his face.

"That's your mail for today. And I want that document on the Lewandowski case on my desk by yesterday! You got that, calculator?"

Cyborg collected the papers from his lap, giving a broad over the shoulder wave to his boss as he turned and walked down the isle. "Have a good day, Mister Harris! Won't happen again!"

Cyborg lowered his hand and slinked back into his seat, gathering up the papers in his lap.

A lemming in a big cooperate building.

Who'd of thought that he'd turn up here; dressed up in a plaid suite, rolled up sleeves, and a goofy golf tie which Mister Harris demanded that he wore every day, typing away aimlessly at a computer till retirement.

Mister Harris's job offer was all Cyborg had left to turn to. Cyborg had made _sure_ it was the last thing for him to turn to. His friends had the right ideas. Beast Boy had joined up with the entertainment business, Raven used the last of her funds to move to Europe to pursue a career in writing…and he…was left sitting here in a huge, noisy room making sure some rich guy named Lewandowski living on the other side of the state got his tax reforms on time. It's been almost a year since he's heard from Raven…and several weeks since Beast Boy had left him a message. How the mighty have fallen. How things change…

Sighing heavily to himself, Cyborg slowly lowered his gaze to messily wrinkled sheets of paper clustered in his hands, his eyes lazily scanning over the titles like a typewriter.

_Bill… _

_Bill… _

_Bill… _

_Advertisement… _

_Bill… _

_Dear Cyborg…_

Cyborg stopped as his eyes scanned over the last heading. He paused, pulling it out from the pile and scanning it over. A letter. A handwritten letter. Cyborg eyed this for a moment, then, slowly, raised his head over the cubicle just enough to glance over at the guys loitering around the water cooler. Hand written letters in this day and age always meant a prank. Nobody took time to handwrite anything anymore…unless its to pick on the 'new guy' as the twenty three mocking letters Cyborg's desk had amassed from various employees around the office over the past two weeks would confirm. Cyborg was just about to toss it into the already overflowing trashcan when he suddenly recognized the writing. Flourished, curvy, time-consuming to write. Some shmucks in his office wouldn't go through all the trouble of writing a neat, cursive letter just to throw out some insult. He once again brought it to his face, reading it slowly through.

Dear Cyborg,

Europe's been all that I've hoped it would be…Adeline and me are both enjoying ourselves immensely. But…I can't let myself forget who've I've left behind. I've decided to come home and pay a visit. Who knows, I might even say hello to Beast Boy…maybe. My Career has taken off and my first book is going to be published within the year. I do hope that you're doing all right. I know that things have been difficult for all of us since the Titan's ended. And if you're in financial need, please don't be afraid to ask. Don't be afraid to ask for anything. My plane will be arriving within the week. I shall see you soon. Adeline says that she misses you…and I do as well.

Love,

Raven

The handful of papers all fluttered in unison as the descended to the ground, flapping downwards from Cyborg's hands.

The bloodied hands slowly guided themselves to the sink, ever so calmly turning the faucet and letting a cloudy, warm gush of water to come tumbling from the tap. There was no light. There never was any light. It didn't like the light. There was only darkness down here. Darkness…and the song.

Its song….

Its music…

There were no longer words coming from beyond the locked door. There were no sounds at all besides the thick, messy gurgling of the plumbing. The hands finally moseyed upwards and turned the water off, moving next to a white rag turned maroon from endless usage.

Next to the sink, turned maroon as well from endless usage, was a pair of gardening shears. Next to that…was the file. Maroon as well.

The hands slowly slinked back into the blackness, the sound of the faucet replaced with heavy, thick footfalls. Leisurely…happily.

And then…whistling.

Author's Note: Aha! Well, it looks like there's plenty of room for development! Please feel free to leave your thoughts and concerns in a pleasant little review! I shall personally read and memorize each one! Yes…I know…I have no life. Until next time!


	3. Chapter 3 Jazz Suite No 2

Author's Note: Well this is chapter three, which will start to get the ball rolling for the rest of the story. I hope you enjoy it. Brings in another character you all know and how he's fared. Please leave a review!

"Please, please, Mrs. Kinsley, let's try not to stray off the track here. The magazines have broadcasted you as the best model in Jump city, our city's teenagers idolize you, you've still kept yourself in tip-top shape even after two kids and now you're suddenly thinking about retirement? Care to enlighten us to why that is?"

The tight, unrealistically proportioned woman shifted in her seat, giggling the fake little snicker every single celebrity on his show used whenever his words whittled their way to the good stuff. Every damn guest seemed to have perfected that slight, good-natured chuckle, their teeth in full view the whole time; revealing no emotion, making it look as if they're always taking personal amusement in whatever comment he threw at them as if they were enjoying the conversation. Beast Boy knew that this little giggle was about as far from that, though, as humanely possible. That little smile was a shield, a dam to keep anything potentially embarrassing from slipping out into the hungry hands of the paparazzi where it could be picked to pieces like a dead pig in a maggot pile. It was up to people like himself to crack this shield. It was his job. To work his way under their skin and try and yank something juicy up for the buzzards.

Talk shows, especially the successful ones, may be viewed as entertainment to the public…but it was nothing but a gauntlet for celebrities. Well, at least on _his_ show anyway. Dropping a starry eyed, inexperienced, new-kid-on-the-block into his show was like throwing a legless cow into a highway. For pop idols the Garfield Logan Show was a test of wills and wits. An obstacle course of wordy booby-traps, and clever, subtle ambushes and verbal tricks that struck each guest where it hurt and often led to a ill-tempered comment or a snippet of embarrassing information that would derive an instant, unanimous 'Ooooh' from the audience. That's why the Garfield Logan show was top of the charts. Broadcasted on three channels, merchandising up the wazoo, and showing no signs of falling from the number one slot. People loved to see a person be picked to pieces. Embarrassed, befuddled, and fallen. And that's exactly what Beast Boy would do. Give the crowd what they want…ignoring the fact that he had been sitting in the exact same chair all those other unfortunate guests were sitting in less than ten years ago. Maybe that's why this job was so appealing. On one of his better days, Beast Boy could have a full grown actor weeping about his crooked childhood memories before commercial break. And he loved every moment of it…

This gal, however, was proving to be a hard egg to crack.

Miss Tiffany P. Kinsley; supermodel extraordinaire, veteran to talk shows, interviews, and surveys. Beloved by the populace, author of several books, mother of two…and now retiring rather suddenly at the age of 34. His arch nemesis.

Beast Boy shifted nonchalantly in his big, puffy red chair, casting one neatly polished shoe atop his desk and placing the tip of a golden pen carelessly between his teeth as he slowly eyed the girl up and down for the umpteenth time, like a spelunker eying an opening, contemplating whether or not to take it.

She was a model all right, although the two soccer balls pressing against the lacy red bust of her dress definitely categorized her under another, quite _different_, line of modeling than simple clothes advertising. She never averted her gaze completely from the audience, her teeth never covered by her lips; platinum blonde hair tied back in a pony-tail to make her look professional, a pair of tiny, black rimmed glasses riding low on her narrow nose to make her look intelligent, and a tiny, shiny nose stud to make her look young. She was constantly smiling the standard celebrity-on-a-talk-show smile and switching her legs from side to side. She seemed to of relaxed slightly though since Beast Boy had laid off his inquiries about the fight of anorexia she'd supposedly 'won' about twenty years ago. That little line of questioning had _really_ gotten her upset and would most likely ensure that Miss Kinsley would never sit her sparkling red ass on his guest chair again. Even now, though, Beast Boy couldn't help but slip in one or two jokes about it though. The audience loved them…and that's all that mattered.

"Well," she finally said pleasantly. "I just thought it was time to sit back and let the next generation step in for me. I felt like I should start spending more time with my children now that they're growing up."

_Predictable._ "Well I can at least say I can relate to the first part." He paused for the inevitable chuckle from the audience before continuing. "How old are your munchkins again? I've heard they're spurtin' up like weeds. You must be feeding those two _a lot_ to keep them growing up nice and strong like that, eh?"

"_Excuse_ me?"

A small red light suddenly blinked on from the sound booth. Beast Boy averted his eyes to it for a moment before acknowledging the man who was giving him the big thumbs up from behind the glass in the back of the auditorium. Giving one last smirk to the slightly red-cheeked guest Beast Boy swiveled back to the obviously amused audience.

"Well, folks, I'm afraid our sponsors would like to intrude upon me yet again. We'll see you back here in five on the Garfield Logan Show with special guest star Tiffany Kinsley, and who knows; maybe we'll see her birth scars! See you in five!"

There were a couple whistlers, one or two howlers, and a whole lot a clapping from the audience as the lights overhead blinked back on. Miss Kinsley's head swiveled a full ninety degrees to meet Beast Boy's eyes like a constipated viper as soon as the cameras were off. "My birth scars? That was _not_ part of the agreement, Mr. Logan."

Beast Boy carelessly pushed himself from his seat, flashing a momentary, eyes shut, open lip grin at her. "This is the big world, honey. People like skin."

Flustered, the middle-aged woman stood up tightly and stomped off, leaving Beast Boy a forlorn glimpse of her red sparkly bottom as she stalked towards the backstage. He huffed to himself and took a long drag from his cup of coffee with a slight head toss just as he heard his name shouted from stage left.

"Garfield! What the _shit_ do you think your doing?"

Beast Boy didn't even turn his gaze, instead eyeing the contents of his mug as if suspicious of something floating around in there. "Just spicing up the script a little, Tom, nothing to worry about."

Face puckered up like a lemon, fifty extra pounds of flab bouncing slightly as he hustled out in front of the desk stood Beast Boy's boss, Thomas Jameson. The front of his white button-up shirt turned grey from an anxiety ridden sweat that he must have worked up during Beast Boy's little questioning with Mrs. Kinsley. Tom may be the guy who hired Beast Boy, but he didn't call the shots. Beast Boy ran the Garfield Logan Show, and only he. Some two-bit fart from Phoenix California had no control over _his_ show…and both of them knew it. It kind of made Beast Boy curious why the heavy little geezer even tried anymore.

Still huffing, the 44 year old man slammed a handful of papers onto Beast Boy's desk which was greeted by a tired, nonchalant forlorn glance from the green changeling as he took another small sip from his mug. "I found today's script on my desk this morning, Garfield. You ran today's show without the god-damn script!"

Another sip. "Well…I just didn't think I'd need it, and what do you know? Looks like I was right."

Tom's hand dragged down his face, his voice sounding on the verge of tears, as it usually was after one of Beast Boy's more brutal shows. "You could have at _least_ held off on those questions about her struggle with anorexia. Those were trying times for her! The last thing we need is a lawsuit!"

Sip. "Oh, please Tom, cut it with the dramatics. I was simply trying to get to the good stuff like a talk show host _should_ do."

Tom's face tightened and he slammed a red, meaty fist against his desk, rattling a useless can of pens. "God damn it, Garfield, it's that type of talk that'll get you fired! Just remember, I'm the one who gives you the check!"

Beast Boy stretched inattentively and began strolling towards the backstage. "Yeah, and try to remember that I'm the guy who racks up that cash for you to fork over."

Tom's brawny brows narrowed even further over the beady little marbles of his eyes as the lanky man disappeared around the corner.

Backstage, Beast Boy weaved his way between the growing crowd of off-stage workers, nodding in recognition at the occasional compliments and cheers before finally sliding his way into the coffee room, plopping his mug down on the counter and glancing down at his watch. Three and a half minutes before round two with Mrs. Kinsley. Just enough time to catch a moment of-

"Mr. Logan, sir! Mr. Logan!"

God _damn_ it.

"What do you want, Hex?" Beast Boy turned tiredly as his starch blonde, buzz-cut secretary dashed over to him. He was short; eyes smothered by humongous glasses, both arms holding clip-board criss-cross styles across his chest as a black, unnecessarily bulky tie swung from his neck.

He stumbled to a halt, readjusted his glasses, and glanced up at him, smiling like an embarrassed school-girl, his voice rising in pitch with every sentence.

"I just wanted to tell you that your show is _still_ riding on the number one slot! You're the most talked about guy on _television_! I've heard rumors of your _name_ being on the guest list to that big Holiday party on Thursday! The party that _every famous person in town_ will be-"

Beast Boy glanced apathetically over at Hex as he placed his mug under the coffee machine. "Did you say Thursday, Hex?"

The young, wide-eyed secretary stopped in mid-sentence, blinking rapidly and readjusting his glasses as if thinking over what he'd said to make sure he'd not screwed it up. "Uh…yes…yes, Thursday. Thursday is the-"

"Tell them I can't make it."

"But Mr. _Logan_…"

Beast Boy interrupted again as he glanced over his shoulder and shouted at a portly man in the hallway. "Hey Harold! Tell them that they need new filters for the coffee machine!"

The man nodded and continued on his way as Beast Boy once again began wondering back towards the stage. Hex, still a little flabbergasted, followed suite, readjusting his glasses and swerving from one side to the other of his boss like a child wanting attention. Beast Boy seemed to ignore him, instead turning his head to practically anyone else in the room who called his name, Hex's voice drowned out by the hundreds of others all streaming around his boss.

"Mr. Logan, this party is-"

"Hey, Garfield! Message for you from some guy named Victor Stone. You wanna read 'em?"

"Nah, put it with the others, I'll get them later."

"Mr. Logan, can you at _least_ give me a reason to why-"

"Yo, Logan! Some girl named Stephanie in the audience wants you to see her. Says she's your girlfriend."

"She hot?"

"Not really."

"Give her a key-chain and tell her I'm married."

"Mr. Logan, please! Listen to me! This party has a lot of powerful people attending! Potential investors maybe! You could at least-"

"Hey, Garfield, here're those filters yah wanted."

"Why the hell you given' them to me, Harold? Put them in the coffee room."

Finally, flushed in the cheeks, Hex stopped following his boss and raised his voice desperately. "Beast Boy, would you at least-"

Once again Hex stopped, but this time, it was because Beast Boy had suddenly spun around and was now facing him, his face rigid, frowning, and dangerous. The fellow employees in the backstage all stopped what they were doing and stared as the tall frame of Beast Boy loomed over the shifting little secretary like the heel of a shoe hovering over a cockroach.

"Listen." Beast Boy said quietly. "My name is Garfield Logan now. Nobody…and I mean _nobody_…calls me 'Beast Boy' anymore. Do I look like a boy? Do I look like a beast? Huh?"

"Well…I…no. No you don't, sir."

"Than call me by my actual name. My _real_ name. Got it? I'm a man now. I'm a god damned _person_, not some hormonal fuckin' superhero _kid_. Got it?"

Hex nervously readjusted his glasses, nodding like a bobble-head doll. "S-sorry, sir. Sorry."

A voice drawled over the speakers, breaking Beast Boy's stare. "One minute before commercial break ends everyone! Get to your places!"

Beast Boy sighed and stood up. "I'll let you off the hook because you're new. Just so you know Nathaniel Howards was a much better secretary than you. The only reason why you have a job is because he disappeared four days ago. If he ever comes back, you'd better pack your things."

Hex continued nodding and scuttled off in the opposite direction like a dog who'd just sat in a fire. Beast Boy straightened and sighed loudly. He continued standing there until another voice caught his attention. "Hey, Logan!"

Sighing again, Beast Boy turned his attention to another unnamable secretary with his hand over the receiver of a phone.

"What is it? The shows about to start."

The secretary looked concerned, brow furrowed, lower lip slightly pressed between his teeth. "Well…the police are on the line. They think they've found Nathaniel."

Beast Boy responded slowly, sensing the concern in his voice. "What do you mean they 'think' they've found him?"

The secretary glanced downwards before continuing, as if unsure of what he was saying himself. "He's dead. They think you have a look at his body."

"Dead? Jesus, as in murdered? Why would they need _me_?"

Again the secretary paused. "They didn't say…they just want you down there immediately." He paused to listen into the phone before turning his gaze back up to Beast Boy's, his eyes even more apprehensive.

"He's been…dressed up a little."

Ending Author's Note: Ah, the mystery is afoot. And don't be fooled, although the story will mostly involve Cyborg, BB and Raven, the main focus will be around Cyborg and Raven. But that doesn't mean that they're safe from danger! Aha! See you next time! Also…if you have any questions or something about the story…just ask in your reviews! Fare thee well.

-Bert the Nomad


	4. Chapter 4 Fur Elise

Author's Note: Some clues…some foreshadowing…enjoy! Please leave a review…I'm on review with-drawl but yah know…It just ain't working! Fulfill my lust! Please?

It began raining by 4:00 that afternoon. That bad type of rain. That type of rain that everyone's been stuck in at some point in there life. That thick, heavy, noisy rain…coming out of nowhere…getting you wet despite the umbrella, despite the rain-coat. The kind that came down so heavy that no windshield wiper could keep up with it. The kind that made you feel cold just by looking at it. Just a glance even.

Maybe that's why Cyborg did it. Watching the storm until it passed...watching it haze the world from beyond his window. Just watching…trying to remember what it'd felt like to be caught in it. To feel it, truly _feel_ it as he once did. He knows that he can't though; knows that it's the most natural things about yourself that are hardest to recall once lost …and practically every single one of Cyborg's had been gone now for over fifteen years. And yet…he watched anyway. Like a dog waiting for the return of its owner whose lying dead on the other side of the fence.

All the lights in his apartment were off, the only sounds coming from the tiny sizzling bubbles of his drink and the eternal pounding of the rain against his windows, the water streaming down them like coins descending towards the bottom of a pool.

His was a standard three-room apartment; cheap, tiny, and always moist, with a descent T.V. with twenty channels, self-installed carpeting, and a table with a single chair pulled in nicely. His equipment that he managed to salvage from the tower before re-construction was stashed in the next room. Recharging gear, repair and maintenance machinery…all kept neatly hidden away in his closet, hidden from himself and the guy who ran the hotel; meant to be used only when needed. He hardly ever needed to fix up anymore anyway. With wise-cracking co-workers having replaced the ballistic missiles and death rays, Cyborg's body wasn't in constant need of repair. In fact…the innumerable weapons, radars, and gadgets he had stashed inside him were rather useless unless in the office as well. Sometimes he'd whip out some of the old toys…blow up a few cars in the junkyard…toss around fallen trees…but it'd been a little over a two months ago he realized that he was simply trying to hold onto the past like a nostalgic veteran…and it'd been two months since he'd even turned his arm into a sonic cannon or even used his strength. He was no longer Cyborg…he was a person…he was just like everybody else. And yet…even with the holographic ring he wore every day to work…he knew that he could never be like a human again. A drifter…a relic.

The rain continued to thunder against his windows, so thick that the slightest gust of wind would cause a visible bend in the rain's path like a wave across the air. Cyborg's shoulders rose and fell in unison with it, letting his head fall against the window with a metallic clank.

God…he was lonely. He _needed_ this visit from Raven. Raven and little Adeline. It wasn't that Raven was one of the few remaining people who'd return his calls, chat on the phone, and even sound happy to see him, she was the only other person who could feel as _he_ felt…although what she'd gone through was so much more than he'd even be able to think of. Losing everything…_everything_…and still managing to overcome it….it was something that would have broken him. Still though…he enjoyed her company. Enjoyed it with everything he had left to enjoy. He felt understood with her…safe almost. Every so often…he'd still get that feeling, the feeling he'd sworn to overcome after those events over ten years ago…faded now from the minds of the populace. Faded from everyone but him. Those feelings of want…desire…and love. Despite that he'd overcome this want…let opportunity after opportunity pass him by like the storm thundering on the far side of his window…he'd never stop loving her.

But that wasn't why he wanted this visit. Although Raven was able to over come her past and her demons die…he was still haunted by memories. Memories of S.T.A.R labs; The Study of Technology Advancement Research Laboratories. That rich, government issued company devoted to publicly providing the newest scientific advancements to civilians and secretly supplying the newest weaponry for the military. Anything illegal never brought to public attention, anything potentially threatening to the company quickly eliminated.

But his memories where all broken. All he got were the pieces; individual fragments utterly useless without the others. The skipping record of his past had begun playing in his dreams every night for the past ten years non-stop and yet the only thing he remembers is the pain and the blood.

If he were to die…that building would be his hell.

That place wasn't a research facility to him or any one else who'd wasted away under endless examination, experiments and loneliness. For them…it had been a nightmare.

A nightmare with white coats, white walls, the smell of medicine and human rot all drowned out by the machines…the speakers…and the screams.

He couldn't remember anything about it other than that…almost as if they'd shattered the mirror of his memory, leaving him only the shards. He didn't even remember how he'd gotten there, what had been done to him, or who'd authorized it. All he knew was that seventy percent of his organic body had been removed as a result of the accident that had erased his family, his home, and his life…and he remembered little of that as well. All he recalled about it was that there was a fire. A hell of a lot of fire.

It was almost ironic. It had been a inferno that had brought him to the S.T.A.R labs in the first place…and it had been a inferno that had burned down that same lab one year later.

Killed by fire…birthed by fire. That's just how he was and nothing would let him forget that.

Maybe that was another reason he'd watch to rain.

Thing's change…but not all of them.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Jesus jumped up Christ I _hate_ rain."

Beast Boy scowled, leaning back into his seat as his limo careened past an intersection, the left wheels sending up an explosion of water along the sidewalk as it passed.

Ten minutes ago, he was two questions away from serving one of the biggest turkeys in Hollywood up to the city on a silver platter and two handfuls of stuffing. Now, he was careening down rush-hour traffic to see the body of his belated assistant with that damn chatter box Hex sitting next to him blathering desperately away on a cell-phone to an enraged Thomas Jameson who Beast Boy had dutifully left uniformed to his sudden cancellation of his interview with an equally enraged Tiffany Kinsley. Shit, this wasn't one of his better days.

Finally letting an obviously irritated sigh through his nostrils, Beast Boy finally knocked on the glass to the driver's compartment. "Hey, buddy! How long does it take to get to the police station? I've still got a show to do!"

The elderly, white-glove sporting driver glanced nonchalantly back at him. "About three minutes! This is rush hour traffic! I can't do any better."

Beast Boy swore angrily and pushed himself back into his seat, letting his knees bounce as his hands fell impatiently against them. Hex glanced over at him, putting a hand on the receiver of the phone and peered across to his boss, licking his lips nervously. "Mr. Logan, I just want to remind you that skipping out on your show isn't going to look very good for you record wise. Mrs. Kinsley might see it as-"

"For Christ's sake, Hex, I'm goin' off to see the body of the guy who used to have _your_ job. He was murdered…I'm sure they'll make an exception."

The limo made a hard left on an intersection despite a glowing red stop light which was quickly accompanied by a series of angry honking and screeching of brakes on water soaked roads. Beast Boy slicked his hair back, once again breathing heavily through his nostrils, mouth pursed shut.

Mr. Howards…his personal secretary for nearly a year and a half…goes missing four nearly five days before suddenly being found dead and 'dressed up' to such an extent that they find it necessary to drag his boss down to see his body. This wasn't going to be good for everyone back at the office when they'd all find out. Nathaniel was popular with just about everyone...and certainly more popular than that effeminate fresh out of college blabbermouth sitting next to him. The poor kid had a family…had a little sister even.

God, he hated it when stuff like this happened…especially to people that knew. Seemed to happen all too much nowadays.

"We're approachin' the police station Mr. Logan." The driver called through the window before sliding it shut once more.

Beast Boy nodded and adjusted his suit, glancing up at Hex as he stuffed his tie once again under his sports-coat. "Listen up, Hex. You don't say a word, got it? I don't even know why we're here in the first place but leave it to me to find out, got it?"

Hex nodded, once again shifting his humongous glasses and glanced out the window. The station loomed up ahead, parked police cars wedged right up next to it like nursing puppies. Standing rather grimly up on the sidewalk ahead was a rather grim looking man in a soaked tan trench-coat and both hands wedged deep into his pockets. He sported a very noir-type hat complete with the pinstripe pants and shiny black shoes to boot. Standing around him were two other officers in standard uniform; one holding a black umbrella over the man in the coat while the other waved for them to come over.

The cab lurched to a halt as the driver called rather uselessly through the window, "We're here, Mr. Logan."

The man in the coat leaned forward and opened the door before Beast Boy could even get out of his seat, sticking his head right into the compartment letting in a cold, moist gust of air from the streets. His face was square, a scruffy half an hour early five o'clock shadow swathing his chin while an Italian looking mustache puffed out from under a large slightly-off center nose.

"Mr. Logan? Mr. Garfield Logan, right?"

Beast Boy smiled as much as he dared to under the circumstances and extended his hand. "Yes, pleased to meet you Mr. …"

"Hiram Barlavoni, chief of police. Please follow us inside, we'll talk on the way."

The Chief, reached out and snatched Beast Boy's hand, using it to yank him from the car instead of shaking it. He completely ignored Hex and slammed the door again almost breaking the assistant's nose. Very quickly, Beast Boy found himself flanked by the other two officers as they quickly led him into the building, the rain wasting no time in thoroughly soaking his head.

Beast Boy nearly stumbled over the threshold of the office, not even having time to remove his still-dripping coat. He glanced up at the police chief feeling slightly neglected. "Uh, Mr. Barlavoni, sir, would you mind explaining just why I'm here?"

Barlavoni didn't even bother looking over at him, nodding in acknowledgement to the officer behind the counter and continuing down the hallway. "We believe that you may be at risk. We wanted to ask you a few questions as soon as possible."

Beast Boy dodged around incoming people and desks as the sound of rain was replaced with that of a standard police office. "At risk? Why? By whom?"

"We were hoping that you could help us with that one." He pushed open a door at the end of the office. Beast Boy followed helplessly as they began stepping down a stair case, his footfalls echoing off the concrete walls. "The condition in which Mr. Howard's body was found has led us to believe that it could be perceived as a possible threat on your life."

Beast Boy repeated this, almost indignantly. He didn't want to be dragged away from a show for some cockamamie theory on stalkers. He was famous now…weirdos are attracted to famous people. "A threat on my life? Come on, Mr. Barlavoni, what could make you think that?"

The police chief suddenly stopped outside an unlabeled steel door, his black-gloved hand reaching up and knocking twice. Finally, he glanced over at him, sighing heavily. "Well, Mr. Logan, I'll let you see for yourself."

The door squealed open and a short, wrinkled man glanced up at them, the lower portion of his face hidden by an operating mask. The clothes of his torso were splotched with big blotches of red, like finger paint designs and the air smelt like chemicals. The man nodded for them to come in, wiping his hands carelessly with a damp, maroon cloth.

Inside was a rather small, crowded room with a single naked bulb swinging precariously overhead acting as the only illumination. The walls were lined with cabinets and shelves, each one overflowing with bottles, capsules, and equipment that looked better suited for a dentist's office. In the center of the room, the light bulb casting an almost spot-light like beam on was a short, steel table. Lying on it, legs and arms hanging limply over each side…was Nathaniel Howards…only…

They hadn't been kidding when they'd said that he'd been dressed up.

"Jesus Christ!" Beast Boy said a little too loudly. "He's look's like _me_!" And indeed, upon first glance, the corpse lying sprawled on the table could be confused with the face of the Titan…the titan he used to be. Youthful, moustache-less, and naïve…

Only upon further inspection could you see who it _really_ was. And what had _really_ been done to him.

The man in the surgeon's mask lifted up a clipboard and read from it nonchalantly.

"Nathaniel Gulliver Howards; age 19, height 5'5, weight 85 pounds, found dead three hours ago on a school playground at the elementary school. Shows signs of food deprivation, restraint, and physical abuse. We think he's been dead for at least a day now."

He lowered the clipboard momentarily to glimpse at Beast Boy who was still trying to get over the initial resemblance. "The green stuff on his skin is paint. Simple lead-based paint, you could buy it anywhere. It covers his entire body, allocated by what looks like a paint roller. Not the neatest of jobs but it was probably what killed him in the end. It wasn't quick for this kid let me tell you that."

Beast Boy didn't say anything, he only continued to eye the body up down with a wide eyed wonder. The kid looked emaciated, the skin of his torso conforming around his ribs like sickly green waves and his stomach slanting inwards like a valley. He reeked of the paint that sheeted his skin, even his hair was streaked with dried lumps of green. Sickeningly enough though, both his bottom and top lip looked partially missing, almost as if he were giving a full mouth smile, his teeth long since coated with dried blood and even more paint. One tooth, in particular though, caught his eye. Holding his breath, Beast Boy leaned over slowly, a hand covering his mouth. "Hey, doc, this tooth looks…"

"Yes, we know, Mr. Logan; it's been filed down to a point. Rather crudely I might add, he probably used something like a wood rasp by the looks of it."

"Jesus." Beast Boy whispered again, leaning back up and lowering his hands. The doctor nodded slowly and pointed with his pen towards the left side of the body's head before once again consulting his clipboard.

"You'll notice that both the ears have been cut at a diagonal angle, crudely but effectively making them…well…pointy. Feel free to have a look. This was most likely a means to make him look more like you."

Beast Boy leaned over, the sour smell of paint and blood swelling up in his nostrils, right back into his throat. Indeed, the top portions of both his ears had been cut off, leaving a black, bubbly ridge of dried blood and pus. His entire ear was swollen from this, each curve puffy and black like he had an earful of purple glinting grapes.

"What exactly killed him?" He finally muttered, face slowly glinting with sweat despite the rather chilly temperature of the room.

"Oh it could have been a lot of things…all we know is that he was duct-taped around the wrists and ankles, dressed up like you, and tossed onto a jungle-gym at the elementary school."

Barlavoni, who'd been leaning silently against the far wall finally straightened, pulling aimlessly at his collar. "You can leave now, Bill, I think Mr. Logan has seen enough."

The doctor shrugged and pulled down his mask. "Allready then, I'll send you a report after I do the full autopsy."

As soon as the door shut the police chief strolled over next to Beast Boy who was still staring at his belated assistant.

"I'm always sorry to meet people under these circumstances…but I thought that you'd better see this."

He paused as he tossed a rag over the deathly grinning face of Howards before turning back to Beast Boy, leaning against the table. "We found something else at the crime scene…something that you might also recognize."

Beast Boy glanced up just as Barlavoni tossed something palm sized into his hands. Beast Boy recognized its feel before he even had a chance to look at it. He'd felt it in his palm before, countless times over those countless years of his youth. A teen titan communicator.

He glanced down at it. Sure enough, blood speckled, muddy but still in one piece…was a communicator. He lifted it to his face, eyeing it with a nostalgic breath. Barlavoni huffed at his stare and pulled out another cigarette despite a very obvious 'No Smoking' sign.

"We found that a short way away from the body. It still works as far as I can tell but you're the guy who'd know how to operate it."

Beast Boy ignored it and slowly pulled it open with a soft click. The screen buzzed on and an image flickered on with a short poignant beep. Very slowly…Beast Boy's smile faded as he read the owner ID at the bottom left of the screen.

"This is Cyborg's communicator."

Ending Author's Note: Well, that was chappy four, I hope it has kept you dully entertained. If it has…leave a good review! If it hasn't…become schizophrenic and get a personality that was entertained by it! Hooray! Fare thee well!

-Bert the Nomad


	5. Chapter 5 Ave Maria

Author's Note: Well, this is Chapter 5. This should give you all the clues you need to solve the entire mystery. Just kidding. Do you think I'd make it that easy for you? Hah, guess again my friends! Please enjoy.

If Lauren hadn't already convinced herself that her job sucks, her boss was an ass-wipe and that the store that sucked twelve hours from her life every week was going down the tubes in a matter of months anyway…..she might have been depressed that it was raining. Luckily though, the 21st century was hardly the right place for old-fashioned pawn shops, especially the run-down termite orgy house she worked at, so pretty soon the city would get rid of this job for her.

Aside from the peeling wall paper, the incredibly uninteresting merchandise, the lack of radio and air conditioning, _Griffin's Pawn Shop_ was so utterly ill-positioned in the city that if it were a four-corner super-center it'd still be hard pressed for customers.

Like a leftover piece of dinner wedged between two upstanding teeth was _Griffin's Pawn Shop;_ squashed between the old train-station and a long abandoned apartment building, both of which towered over the store by a good two stories and both in better condition than the brown, rotting dwarf at their heels. A car passing by would most likely assume that the pawn shop was as abandoned as either of their neighbors, the only factors that may prove otherwise being Lauren's Volkswagen that remained parked in front and a constantly flickering neon-light that was two flickers away from exploding.

Everything about the old store just seemed out of place….hell; even _she_ stuck out from the fuzzy, moist atmosphere of this place like a tuxedo at a rave party. Standing only 5'2 and weighing somewhere around 100 pounds even, Lauren Callihan was the perfect paradigm of a suburban family's worst nightmare. Only 15 and already pierced places other than her face, hair bleached from blonde to purple, and a wardrobe that'd make Satan himself click his tongue in disapproval like a touchy old woman. With two drunk parents that just sat around bitching in a trailer on the outskirts of town, she'd let school, responsibility and shame all drift from thought just like everything else in her life. She drifted from job to job, boy to boy, apartment to apartment, picking up what money she could by means that nobody would ever attempt if they'd gave a damn about anything. Luckily though for Lauren, she'd decided that life was a bitch…so fuck it. Waiting for the next high, for the next good screw….that's what everyone wants sooner or later. That's what jobs, educations, and careers were _really_ for….getting some half-assed girl splayed out on a bed and having the money to cover for it. That was life…that's how she liked it.

It was nearing 4:20; she'd be getting off soon…and most likely getting _on_ some boy later on that night. Nice having something to look forward to. She glanced from her watch to around the store which was empty except for one elderly woman in the back, almost invisible behind a large model pirate ship sitting on a table. Lauren sighed loudly, her eyes inspecting the store for the umpteenth time like a sprinkler.

Shelves overflowing with dusty glass figurines, fat ugly incense candles, and ugly little wood carvings all half-illuminated under flickering fluorescent lights…it was really no wonder why the only customers they got here were a bunch of old ladies dressed all up in heavy blue dresses and purple gloves, shuffling about and filling up the place with the smell of medicine and musty perfume. Half the time they didn't even buy anything, half the time they just wondered from isle to isle occasionally picking up a random item, looking it over, and putting it back like it was a bad cabbage. That pissed Lauren off to no end…it was one thing that she got caught in this god-forsaken building but when the only customers came shuffling in and don't even buy anything…

"Hey, Lady!" Lauren finally called. "We're closing. You need to get out."

Very slowly the old woman's face slid up halfway and over the deck of the ship, foggy blue eyes slowly focusing in on her from behind quarter sized spectacles like a kid peeking over the side of a clubhouse.

"Closing?" She spoke in a squashy but rich southern tone, her voice so soft that she could have almost of been talking to herself. "But the big clock at the front of the store still says I have ten minutes. I still have to choose a present for my granddaughter. It's her birthday tomorrow."

Lauren glanced down at her shiny black nails, rubbing the thumb and the index together in a very bored manner, her eyes half lidded. "Yeah well it takes ten minutes for me to close up this place, now skedaddle."

The woman's face didn't move from over the ship's deck, the rest of her body hidden behind the hull. "How about five minutes? My grand-daughter is-"

"Sorry, store policy, you need to get out when I tell you. I have a life outside of this fuckin' joint unlike you and I'd very much like to get back to it."

The old woman's eyes flinched ever so slightly as Lauren swore, as if she were yielding to a camera flash. Lauren knew that swearing at old folks was a key way to assert control. She liked it…liked getting right up into their faces, liked throwing around authority…liked watching them squander for a response. She could bitch this old woman into submission if she wanted to…but she'd just gotten finished working a six hour shift and that crack-head boss of hers, Mr. Griffin, was right upstairs doing god-knows-what. Right now she just wanted to be back in her car…and some old hag wasn't going keep her held up in this damn dump any longer than she had to.

For a moment, the old woman didn't move, she just continued staring at her through those tiny, shiny spectacles and about 60 years of separation in age and morals. Finally though, like a tree finally yielding to an overbearing storm, she sighed and turned the click of her cane echoing off the walls, inhibited by any other noise aside from the pounding rain on the windows. Lauren watched her through steely, tired lids as the old woman made her way to the glass doors, shrugging on an old rain-coat and opening a shiny black umbrella with a loud _froomping_ sound. She halted as she placed her hand on the yellow-worn handle to the door, casting one final glance over her shoulder at the pale, black dressed girl staring at her with equal venom. For a moment, Lauren thought she was going to say something….something potentially insulting, but the moment passed and the woman disappeared into the storm, her body becoming a hazy blue blur in the rain, the black umbrella bobbing side to side like a decapitated mushroom. Lauren let her breath slowly out. God she would have loved that….having the old woman say something that would give her the green flag to chew the old woman out. Mr. Griffin would verbally bitch-slap her afterwards for scaring off another costumer….but hell; this whole damn place would most likely be under deconstruction in another month so it wouldn't really matter anyway. But then again…it was almost sad watching something old and helpless be destroyed to make room for more efficient shinier things, all its experiences, memories and triumphs thrown into a thresher and forgotten without a second thought…but that was just how the world was…and that's why she acted the way she did. It was always so much easier to live once you've decided to not give a shit about anything anymore. That's how she lived…that's why she was able to punt Miss helpless-old-lady out the door here without a second thought.

She glanced at her watch again. 4:25 p.m. That old hag had managed to seep five minutes from her life…but that didn't matter, she'd probably get doped up enough later on that night to make up for twenty little-old-lady conversations.

It was quiet now.

Lauren was alone. That type of alone that you don't feel until you look around and realize it. The type that usually requires a big room and rain. She glanced to the stairs at the back of the store that led up to Mr. Griffin's office as she pushed herself off the stool and stuffed her belongings back into her purse.

No noise. Unusual. Usually that old lethargic relic had some Godlie Oldies playing on that gigantic old phonograph of his up in his office…now that Granny was gone she should have been able to at least catch the base notes coming through the floorboards.

But there was nothing. Almost as if nobody was there.

For some reason…she felt afraid. A childish type of afraid. The type of afraid she'd sworn off with her new chosen lifestyle. Everything was pointless…including fear. So why this sudden discomfort, this sudden urge to glance behind her, to make sure that she was completely alone? The old geezer was probably just dozing off and forgot to change the record, that's all.

Shaking off the feeling Lauren picked up her purse and slung it over her shoulder, swinging her keys lazily in her hands as she did so. The store seemed so empty all of the sudden…the fluorescent lights missing so many places. Lauren was supposed to inform Mr. Griffin when she left…she was also supposed to clean up and close up the place after her hours were up. But she didn't…not this time. As she edged her way around the side of the counter she couldn't help but give the place an once-over as if turning to someone calling her name, her eyes finally falling on the stairs leading up to Mr. Griffin's office.

Forget about it, he's probably asleep in that big chair of his, feet propped up easily against his desk and a single reading light reflecting off that college-professor bald head of his. You have a life…get back to it; you don't even like that guy. Lauren swallowed again, pursing her lips and swallowing. She finally turned back to the door, sighing to herself and placing both hands on the handle.

_Whump_

Lauren yelped like a puppy that'd just got its tail wedged under a rocking chair. The sound had come from directly over her, a thick heavy type of thump, like a watermelon freefalling onto pavement. Instantly, Lauren's entire body tingled from the sheer unexpectedness of it all, feeling like she'd just been cast into freefall herself. The sound echoed off the walls, rattling several of the fine glass figurines on the shelves and casting the slightest of dust showers from in between the ancient ceiling boards.

Lauren's chest rose and fell as if she'd spent the last five minutes in a boxing match. There was no more noise, just the persistent thudding of fat cold drops against the glass door on her left. Jesus, did Mr. Griffin push that whole damn phonograph onto the floor? Or…maybe…

Shit, maybe that old fart just got a heart attack. She'd seen him take pills before, seen him hold his chest and become breathless after arguing with her. Maybe all the stress finally caught up with him. Great, the last thing she needed was her boss dying on her. A dead guy usually meant that cops would show up…and the law and Lauren didn't exactly have a cuddly relationship?

She stepped back into the store, closing the door once again.

"Mr. Griffin?"

No response, just the rain behind her. Silence instantly filled in the void of her words and very quickly she found herself straining her ears, trying desperately to hear something. A call for help, a ragged breath, fingernails against the floorboards….anything.

"Mr. Griffin? Are you all right? Did something-"

She paused as her ears finally detected something, as soft and constant as the rain behind her. It was shrill, like the wind, changing pitch, never pausing….only the wind was behind her, this wasn't. She took another step forward, edging her way towards the old fashioned wooden stairway complete with the polished railing and fading pin-striped brown wallpaper. As she drew within ten feet she thought she could recognize the noise, her breathing becoming harsh and quiet as she did so. Whistling. Its tempo sharp and quick like the flight pattern of a deranged horsefly. It filtered through the floorboards, muffled and grainy like those old fashioned records that Mr. Griffin played up in his office.

The fear returned with the whistling, like thunder after the blinding flash of lighting, coming in cold and prominent. Lauren had worked for Mr. Griffin for almost a year now and she knew for a fact that those huge smelly cigars that he sucked through every day would most definitely prevent him from being able to whistle like that. Maybe it was a record…maybe he was seated on his chair with that big smelly cigar bouncing carelessly between his bewhiskered lips; dozing off and listening to some sort of weird whistling completion that only the old appreciated.

Than why the hell was she so afraid?

"Mr. Griffin? Are you okay? I thought that…that I heard something."

The whistling continued, completely regardless, like a recording.

Lauren's palms were starting to become sweaty, her fists constantly clenching and unclenching like a schoolboy in a fight. She'd promised herself not to be scared of anything…she should be marching right up those steps and seeing if her boss had bought the farm or not.

Her trembling hand slowly enclosed around the railing, her left foot placed unsurely on the first step. The lights were off…it was black as a starless night up there. Someone could be standing right at the top of the stairs and she wouldn't be able to see them…but no…the whistling was coming from deep within the room, around where that large mahogany desk was. In the middle of the room was the chain for the overhead light…about five steps away from the stair. It'd be a snitch reaching it…a snitch.

She called out one last time, finally letting her frustrated, fearful anger raise her voice. "Hey, ass-hole! I know you're up there! Answer me!"

The whistling continued heedless, infinitely happy, and infinitely leisurely. This only made her fists ball harder against the railings, her lip tightly pressed between her teeth. God, she wished that old granny was still around, at least then she wouldn't be alone. But she wasn't alone…._somebody_ was upstairs. Somebody _other_ than Mr. Griffin.

But how? The only entrances were both positioned on the bottom level. Nobody could've gotten upstairs without her seeing them. She eased herself onto the first step, which mercilessly squealed under her wait like a disturbed cat. She paused, mouth tightly closed, hands clamped on either side of the railings. She remained perched, arms held out on either side of her, legs poised on the step, almost as if she were positioned to be hurled from a gigantic slingshot. The whistling grew louder, taunting her like a bird poised on a far overhead branch.

That was it. She'd had enough of this damn little scenario. Time to just get the whole damn thing over with…something as silly as this wasn't going to keep her in this damn building any longer than necessary. Frowning as deeply as she could, she glared up into the office overhead.

"All right you bastard! I'm coming up! You hear me? I ain't kidding!"

And with that, Lauren Callihan jumped up the stairs, taking them three at a time like she was leaping hurtles. The blackness enveloped her instantly, sucking up her image like a stone descending into the ocean…all sound, all imagery, all evidence of her existence swallowed up within moments.

The whistling never hesitated…even as Lauren's hands stumbled upon the light switch…even as her piercing scream careened throughout the store like a steaming tea pot…even as the scream was cut, silenced like as if she'd simply ceased to exist as the lights once again blinked out.

Ending Author's Note: Well, I now must depart once again. Please leave your comments, suggestions, and…well…comments in your review. It doesn't have to be much…and don't worry, I'll do my best to make sure everything makes sense in the end. Have any questions? Feel free to ask. And just to answer what must be the most prominent one on all you ladies mind; yes…I am very single!

-Bert the Nomad


	6. Chapter 6 Liebestraum No 3 in A Flat

Author's Note: Sorry for the wait. I'd give you a sympathetic pat on the back, but alas, technology has only come so far. Oh well…please enjoy.

There were four things that Cyborg could always rely on to cheer him up; food, the T-car, friends, and on-line video game amusement available on the most complex entertainment system on the west coast.

…However…

Now that government suits had shanghaied his T-car, differences in social status and living locations had scattered his friends, and a lack of limitless government funding had ensured that any form of expensive entertainment remained on store's shelves….Cyborg had to make due with the one remaining comfort he had left with enough passion to compensate for those now absent…

_Frozen Cajun chicken, left-over potatoes, diced onions, cheddar cheese…_

His hands placed solidly on his hips, an old-fashioned white apron hanging from around his neck like a professional Italian chef, Cyborg's eyes slowly trailed down his counter. Laying across it, placed like crooks in a line-up, was what was hopefully going be the components to a rather nice and relaxing dinner that had been on Cyborg's mind like a house-cat splaying itself in your lap while you're working, not leaving until its been well satisfied.

_Olive oil, ground pepper, three eggs, more potatoes…_

This dinner would most likely kill off the leftovers he'd been hoping to save for the rest of the week; living off a fixed income had very quickly exposed him to the ways of conservation…so much so that expiration dates on foods were now being registered like the ingredients label; no matter what he found…he usually still ate it. Cyborg expressed that little theory to the fullest. Right now he had a gallon of milk in the fridge that looked a week away from turning into cottage cheese…thank god he was machine enough to turn off his taste registration.

_Chinese noodles, cream cheese, two sticks of butter, cheap red wine, even more potatoes…_

Clearing out his food supply had also turned into a necessity now that a mature woman and a growing little girl were coming over to visit. He'd prefer for them to stopover and be able to eat something fitting for human beings and not a garbage disposal…but considering _his_ budget he'd most likely have to settle for some cheap Herbal Tea and a box of Captain Crunch. Cyborg knew that Raven was _very_ capable of taking care of not only herself but a little ten year old girl as well. Cyborg had to admit, the woman had gotten the right idea about how to live on her own after retirement…smart decisions…proper procedures…a good plan to steak it out on her own after the tower was passed down to the next generation…all of this had made it possible for her to raise a little girl and not be suckered into disastrous nostalgia.

She had…he hadn't.

Instead of admitting that the spot-light had swiveled to the next performer, Cyborg had tried to cling onto the fading image of glory the city held for him like a racehorse with a broken leg. Predictably and inevitably, though, the gun of rejection had been placed to his temple and his career had been ended completely and utterly in less than a year. Now he was a nothing more than a twenty three year old robotic relic gathering up dust in some bum apartment in the city's underbelly…but Raven didn't know that…and he was damned if he was going to let her figure out his failure to its full extent. He shuddered to think what Raven would think of him after she found out that Beast Boy was on four television channels, fourteen magazine covers, and even a beer commercial while he sat huddled in some unknown cubicle in some unknown office building working for some unknown cooperation.

_Lettuce, green beans, half a gallon of orange juice, tomatoes, mashed potatoes…_

It'd been years since he'd seen Raven, he couldn't even imagine what she looked like now. Ever since the events that shadowed little Adeline's conception, Raven had changed. The type of change that had eluded his grasp for nearly ten years. The type of change that would make his nightmares stop and finally put those ambiguous years of hell in the S.T.A.R Labs to rest. Raven no longer wore a hood, no longer spent nearly half the day cooped up in a closed room scouring over books and lamenting over meaninglessness. That Raven had died with her past, and now, a completely new flower had emerged from the ashes. He didn't know just where she found the strength to overcome her past, but one thing was for sure…he was no-where near there. He didn't even have enough courage to take a stroll in the street or show up to work without the holographic ring he'd used when infiltrating the HIVE academy once upon a time to make him look human. He brought it everywhere, hell; he sometimes wore it in his own apartment even when there was nobody else around to fool. Denial and defiance...that's all it was; just two more things that Raven had freed her mind from while he made long time acquaintances with.

God, he envied her.

The phone rang just as Cyborg had placed the chicken on the stove. He let it ring twice before picking it up, a bottle of olive oil and ground pepper held in his other hand. He nestled it between his shoulder and ear as he swiveled back to his dinner snatching a knife up and pulling out a cutting board for the tomatoes.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Cyborg! You still poor?"

Cyborg very quickly put the oil and knife down, turning once again away from the stove and quickly holding the phone to his ear with both hands. Only four other people still called him by that name…and only one would greet him like that. He whispered into the phone…his voice so unsure it was almost cynical.

"Beast Boy?"

The voice on the other end of the line responded cheerily, almost completely unchanged by ten years of maturity…that is, if maturity had even bothered to show up at his door after all this time. Beast Boy sounded almost exactly as he did while they were still heroes; positive, energetic, and infinitely confident. Almost as if they'd left off on good terms with one another from their last encounter.

"You betcha, big guy! It's been a while since we've really talked, hasn't it?"

Cyborg waited for a moment on the other end of the line, as if checking for an echo. How long had it been since this olive prick even phoned him? One month? One year? Cyborg continued to stand, the chicken beginning to sizzle on the stove his mind shooting blanks for any comeback to his previous teammate's call. Sensing his hesitation, Beast Boy spoke up again, his tone dropped slightly into a more serious one, clearing his throat before he did so.

"Hey, look Cy, I know that…well…that we weren't exactly in good terms with each other the last time we spoke. So let's both just-"

Cyborg sighed slightly, his initial shock slowly melting down to a familiar annoyance he'd felt the last time they'd truly spoken. He turned back around, once again fiddling with the chicken that was beginning to smoke from the stove.

"'In good terms with each other'? That's a bit of an understatement, _buddy_."

"Jesus, Cyborg, don't tell me that you still lugging around a grudge about that stupid-"

"A grudge? You think I'm the one holding a grudge!" Cyborg once again found himself turning away from the chicken on the stove, both his hands plastering themselves to his hips, spatula still in hand. "Look, _I've_ been trying to get in touch with _you_ for almost a month! Did you return _any_ of my messages during that time? Even one?"

"Oh for God's sake Cy, you sound like my wife; this _isn't_ why I called you."

Cyborg's lip crawled up towards his nose in a sailor's frown, tapping his foot irritably on the ground as he switched the phone from side of his head to the other like he was accepting a break-up call. "You don't have a wife."

He could clearly hear other voices from the other end of the line, and the slightly scratchy reception sounded as if Beast Boy was calling from a cell-phone in some sort of office. Beast Boy's voice was rising slightly, both to rise over the background noises and also to rival Cyborg's own words like two competing roosters.

"Look, I'm just trying to give you a heads up before the cops show up at your place."

"_Cops_?"

There was a pause for a moment…and even though Cyborg couldn't see his old friend he just _knew_ that he scratching the back of his head, that damn 'oops-forgot-to-tell-you' smile plastered to his face which was always followed by his trademark, uncomfortable chuckle, like he did every time he acted as the bearer of bad news.

"Yeah, you see, your old communicator was found today."

"But what does that have to do with the police? Beast Boy…if you've gotten me into some sort of trouble…"

"Relax, _ace_, they're probably going to just knock, come in, as a few questions, and be on their merry way. Nothing big…and nothing _I'm_ to blame for. They're probably going to show up pretty quick."

Cyborg's neck was craned towards the phone, teeth clenched out of frustration and downright befuddlement. Why were the police after him just because of a communicator he threw out over two weeks ago? He spoke into the phone again, his voice strained like a man sitting on the narrow end of a broom.

"Beast Boy…you'd better be kidding about-"

Before he could finish, in a timing that seemed a little _too_ perfect, there were two resounding knocks from the other side of the door to his apartment, a strong, unmistakable voice of authority coming from the other side. Cyborg knew who it was before the second knock.

"Mr. Victor Stone, this is the police. Open up."

Christ…he hadn't been kidding…

Cyborg slowly turned around lowering the phone and letting out a long winded sigh as the chicken once again began to smoke from the stove, the corners of his mouth making a further retreat towards his chin…

Well…so much for dinner…

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Raven was frowning, her elbows both spaced evenly apart on the table, her chin resting comfortably in her palms as she stared down the table with her half-lidded lavender eyes. Returning her gaze with a near equal stare was a little girl, her arms held in the exact same posture of her counter-part. Upon first glance, it would almost seem as if Raven were staring into a mirror of her past…her gaze locked with a once living image of herself that once had bore those same deep lavender eyes. Indeed the little girl looked a great deal like Raven herself at a younger age; pale, wide-eyed, spry and limber…very much like a cat. The only true difference between them was the little girl's hair which hung black as night to her shoulders…waving ever so slightly even though she remained still as a statue. The little girl met Raven's eyes sternly but respectively, both her palms pressing her cheeks against he tiny little nose like a jack-o-lantern as kept her gaze.

In the middle of the table, encased completely in a silent, black flame, was the salt-shaker. Every so often, the little girl's eye would wince ever so slightly in an otherwise unseen effort; and every time…the salt-shaker would tremble ever so slightly in response. Raven kept staring, not having blinked for the last five minutes. Despite a near-perfect stillness, however, a thin sheen of sweat was beginning to creep down the little girl's face, her breathing becoming deeper and faster. Another two minutes past…completely in silence, the salt-shaker having moved all of two inches.

Raven kept her eye on her daughter; her frown deepening as the trim little fingers of the little girl began working the armrests anxiously, the calm, confident look now completely lost in her eyes. The saltshaker began to tremble more violently, the flames bellowing like a miniature bonfire in the middle of the table.

_She's pushing herself too hard_…Raven thought tiredly, letting the corner of her mouth raise ever so slightly in a smirk of admiration. …_just as she always did_…

Finally, the little girl made one last, almost completely inaudible, gasp in an obvious effort; finally breaking her gaze from her mother and bringing more wrathfully upon the saltshaker with renewed vigor. The saltshaker promptly responded by exploding. Raven finally let out the inevitable, prolonged sigh that she'd been building up for the past five minutes as shards of glass went flying by her head and a fine spray of salt wafted down from the air like a miniature snow-storm. The little girl glanced around the room for a moment, before glancing up rather sheepishly up at her mother who slowly brushing salt of her shoulder.

"I only asked for you to pass the salt, Adeline. You don't need to move every little thing I ask for with your powers…" She paused to remove a shard of glass from her hair, flicking it over her shoulder with a sigh. "…especially when you haven't even mastered the basics yet."

The little girl continued blushing, her feet swinging like abandoned swings from under the table. Her voice was soft; unsure…so much like her mother's had been.

"I almost had it…I just couldn't focus on it…"

"Looking at what you're moving usually helps."

Adeline averted her gaze to the floor, her hands glued to the sides of her seat. "You don't have too when _you_ move things."

Raven smiled as the shards from around the room slowly began floating back towards the center of the table upon her silent command like a slowed reversed re-enactment of the saltshaker's unfortunate end. "Well, Mommy is a lot older than you, Adeline. Lots of practice. Besides…that's why we meditate so much."

Adeline hung her head and pushed herself from her seat glancing around the room, her hands clasped tightly behind her back. "You want me to get you some more salt, mommy?"

Raven also pushed herself out from her seat, standing up and picking up her dishes. "No need, I asked for the salt over ten minutes ago, my soup's quite cold now."

Adeline blushed a little more and disappeared into the kitchen, her dishes piled neatly in her hands. Raven watched her go, a slow melancholy feeling creeping over her as she watched her daughter clamor up to the sink and carefully drop her dishes, stopping secretly to try and levitate one of the glasses without her mother seeing. It felt almost nostalgic…but she wasn't sure she was enjoying the feeling she was getting.

Raven had raised Adeline away from her past, away from the darkness, and even away from her own country. They'd been living in France for over a year now, Raven's writing career slowly but surely climbing towards completion. Adeline had no knowledge of Trigon, the End of the World, or even who her father _truly_ was. She did not want Adeline to grow up tainted in any way by the past that had caused so much grief, so much pain. She was still debating whether or not she made the right choice by showing her daughter the teachings of Azarathian telekinesis, for not only was Raven running out of saltshakers, the discipline of her powers required of obedience, focus, and a fair share of knowledge of Azarath itself and the dark histories that plagued it.

Raven didn't want Adeline to grow up to be like her for she was well aware that her past was not exactly 'role model' material. Despite everything though, she could see herself in those eyes of her daughters. Moving from a city in the United States to one in France had been host to many changes for both of them…however; the biggest problem remained similar in both cases. Adeline simply could not make any friends. Although she was a smart, lean, and cute as a button…she simply had trouble trusting people; from store clerks to children even younger than herself. With no brothers…sisters…or even a father for company; little Adeline had grown inseparably close to her mother, constantly hiding behind her legs when talking with strangers, blushing whenever anyone talked to her, disappearing like wraith when forced into a group. Raven had been forced home schooled Adeline because of this, which only furthered her attachment. She was a fast learner and had picked up on the French language faster than even _she_ had….but still…the only other people she trusted were the faces of the titans that were once ocean away and more than one year confined to memory. Raven took comfort with at least knowing that Adeline was going to enjoy this oncoming visit. Their plane was set for Wednesday, and the fact that Adeline had packed all her clothes, books, and accessories a full week in advance made it quite clear to Raven that her daughter was looking forward to seeing Cyborg again.

So was she.

Cyborg and Raven had become deeply personal friends ever since the events preceding little Adeline's birth. They'd always been in good terms with each other ever since the very first time they'd met, but after Raven's pregnancy, they'd grown closer. Close enough for Raven to finally see who the man behind the metal was…and too see the shackles that still bound him to memorial pains and ambiguous mental depressions that she had known only too well. Their relationship had grown close, but nothing that could possibly be sniffed out by the ever prying eyes and ears of Best Boy and the rest of the team. Raven wasn't ready for romance in her life again…and Cyborg had known that. Their late night-time visits, secluded meetings, and private sessions were nothing more than talks. The talks that had shown that there was a lot more to Victor Stone than the tabloid headlines. Cyborg had been protective about his past when it became the center of conversation…even though he didn't seem to recall one bit of it to defend. Every time the subject would come up it'd be quickly veiled like a battle wound harbored by a sour, retired warrior. The only things that Raven had managed to unearth was sorrow…but the poor metal man had been brimming over out the ears with it for quite some time…everyone had just come to accept what he'd been to the team and didn't bother to see what was beneath. Cyborg had become so much like a vending machine; nobody cared exactly how it worked just as long as their two cents resulted in what they wanted to get. Only _she'd_ bothered to try and see who he truly was…before the metal, before the Titans, and before the charade.

She was actually making some progress until…well…until the Titans had split…and they were once again separated from each other; company and mind.

Raven closed her eyes, leaning back in her seat. _Perhaps…this visit would be a chance to pick up where she'd left off, help him with the past he kept hidden away…_

There was a resounding smash of what sounded like a glass from the kitchen becoming well acquainted with the tiled floor. Raven quickly let herself let out a long sigh, not even bothering to open her eyes. During this time while little Adeline was sorting out her powers, Raven had become quite skilled in identifying certain household objects just by the sound they made as they were thoroughly reduced to pieces visa vi another telekinetic misfire by her daughter.

Raven sighed again, letting her fingers mosey up to her temples.

…_and let Adeline find new stuff to break_…

Ending Author's Note: Well, that be the next chapter. I'll do my best to update ASAP…and remember…I'm deeply interested in everyone who takes time out of their busy schedules just to review and you can guarantee that I'll look into your stories if you do the same for me out of courtesy. Don't feel obligated to however…I don't like to put people into awkward situations. Until next time, friends. Fare thee well.


	7. Chapter 7 Cello Suite No 1 Prelude

Author's Note: Sorry about the wait…I'm in a musical in school and the practices are reaching an access of four hours per rehearsal. Couple this with normal high-school homework and the equation will logically add up to a Nomad with little time and heavy lids. I shouldn't complain considering some other writers out there with a LOT more stuff to do than my workload calls for. Still, I'm sorry about the wait. So…without further ado, here's the next chapter, set to the music of Bach's Cello Suite No. 1. Enjoy!

Nobody remembered the Third Building on the Left. Nobody remembered its location, nobody remembered its name, and nobody remembered its purpose…and that was the beauty of it. The only people who could tell you where it was were the local veterans of the slums, each one of them bedraggled, dodgy ghosts of the city's blind spot. But even to _them_, it was only known as the Third Building on the Left, whatever it had once been used for, whatever it had once been titled…all just another jumble of memories carelessly forgotten by the absent minds of an easily distracted metropolis.

The Third Building on the Left had been there as long as the city had, and throughout all the years, no efforts had been made to try and keep the looks of the 12 story Victorian structure from decaying to the dusty, moist shell it had become. Only a handful of windows remained, the walls themselves too forgotten even for graffiti. The wind constantly breathed through the missing window panes and broken doors, ventilating the sweet dead scent of rot into the streets like a sickly furnace.

Despite everything though, the Third House on the Left still held a certain charm.

The old fashioned gentleman's charm.

The one that'd been replaced with wit, impatience, and crude humor over the past century until it became an charismatic appeal sported only by the elderly, the senile, and the stubborn...which, in a way, was exactly what the Third House on the Left was, and thus, had remained standing with it's tipped hat and busted cane even after its prime had come, passed, and left a message.

A ten foot alley way scattered with trash, collapsed chain linked fences, and forgotten dumpsters overflowing with garbage separated the Third Building on the Left from its neighbors, both of which were long since abandoned. The entire block had been commissioned for deconstruction…and that had been abandoned as well thanks mostly in part too an unexpected massive fire that nearly took the Third Building on the Left to the ground along with the deconstruction crew. Sour, black scars still adorned the Third Building on the Left's structure, puckering the walls and choking its room with ashes and incinerated skeletons of furniture. The fire had come out of nowhere, run its course, and died down like an old man's tantrum. There were several more attempts of bringing down the Third Building on the Left but each one of them usually was an unusual and inconceivable failure shadowed by unusual events and suspicious coincidences. With unexplainable gas leaks, machines continuously breaking down, and numerous nasty accidents; the towel was finally thrown in after nearly a month's work and a good amount of money.

The Third House on the Left was promptly left and forgotten, its weather beaten and sagging neighbors all tipped slightly on either side of it like a bunch of tired old men crowded around a card table, wanting nothing more than to have a bit of quiet and solitude, just as content old folks do.

And for a while, those buildings remained empty…

For a while…

It had been raining heavily, so heavily that the Third Building on the Left's starch pale walls had been melted away into a sickly grey, like the underside of an eel, almost glossy looking in the continuous downpour. The water had not trouble worming its way down through the numerous cracks and crevices of the old building, making every room damp, cold, and ripe with the smell of moisture and rot like the halls of an old sailing ship, causing the intricate, faded patterns of wall-paper to blotch and thicken like long neglected patches of rust.

In no particular room, placed in no particular spot, was placed a large plush red chair. Like the building around it, time, negligence and the weather had eaten away at it, the once flaring color now nothing more than a muddy maroon. The rest of the room was empty of everything else that could possibly be in a room with the exception of an foggy, cracked window and a plain, splintered door. No carpet, no lights, no color; all of the outlets reduced to small ugly holes in the walls with several stiff, open-bottomed wires standing erect from them. The rest of the room was completely empty except for the chair, which was facing the corner, as if fawning to some invisible fireplace. The seat of the chair was profiled against an open window, and occasional waves of rain would come fluttering in, soaking the grizzled, torn drapes.

The figure in the chair took no notice.

Only its silhouette was visible, resting comfortably in the cushions, feet placed evenly apart on the rotting floor-boards. Its entire body was still except for its hands. They were working something in its lap, its eyes focused on it with the utmost attention.

It wasn't whistling now…now wasn't the time.

Now there was _work_ to do…

_Important_ work.

Its foot soon began tapping in earnest excitement no matter how hard he tried to remain focused, his breath filtering between his grinding teeth. One particularly sudden lightening flash exploded from outside his window, lighting up the room for only a moment like a camera flash. Again, the figure took no heed, eagerly flipping something like a blanket over in his lap and beginning anew, his shoulders beginning to rotate with the excitement. Thunder rattled the glass of the windows like a subway cart rolling by, the luminosity of the lighting still rolling in the glassy eye of the silhouette like a loose spark-plug.

Then…the sound of rain again…

Only when the wind would break off for a moment, and only when the rain would fawn away from the window could anyone even have the chance to detect the sounds echoing from beneath the floorboards. Even then it was faint, like the far distant howl of an airplane…never fully heard, but always felt. It'd just take a pause in the storm to hear the noise…but it'd take complete silence to know that they were a girl's screams.

But _it_ already knew.

It _knew_ she was there.

_Precise…Ideal…Perfect an' real._

The figure flicked out its arms, the cloth that had been neatly folded in its lap flapping outwards like a curtain with a heavy 'fwooshing' sound, the freshly acquitted stitches holding fast. The arms flicked twice, fluttering the cloth just long enough for a piercing flash of lightning to illuminate it and the wide, wild smile from behind it.

A blue cape.

A blue hood.

A ruby clasp.

_Faultless_…_Flawless_…_wild'n_ _lawless_…

The screams from below turned into exhausted sobs, so thick and heavy they were almost dry heaves…not even bothering with pleas, logical sentences, or even _words_ for that matter. She'd been screaming since she'd woken up…but it didn't mind. It was used to screams…_its _own screams especially.

The arms continued flapping the cape like a rag caught in the wind, the Cheshire cat smile continually stretching out across the unseen face, red-tainted teeth gritting together with and audible grind.

Not much longer until it's all together…

And this time…it'd be better! This time…it'd be _perfect_!

_Never fading…always there…flaming passions…dead despair…_

Despite itself…it pursed its lips…and began to whistle.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

"So… it's Cyborg, right?"

Cyborg glanced up slowly from the sleek, metal interrogation table with obvious irritation, letting his left arm slide aimlessly over the back of the chair while his other slowly rubbed the skin under his eyes like a film critic at a disastrous opening night.

_Jesus, what did Beast Boy do?_

"Look Mr. Barlavoni, My name is Victor Stone and I'm not part of the Titans anymore, I'm retired."

The police chief who was seated leisurely across from him puffed away nonchalantly on a large cigar, eyeing him with a confident, in-control leer. His fingers were tented in front of him, shoulders hunched, one eyebrow slightly raised, a mug of coffee casually steaming from the corner of the table…oh yeah, he was enjoying this. It was most likely every police chief's dream to take down some cape clad snot just once…even a retired one. It was either that, or he was simply like this with everyone he interrogated. Cyborg had heard of Police Chief Barlavoni, and quite frankly, he had to say he was impressed. He'd been transferred in from Chicago about a year after the Titans separated. By promptly putting foot-to-ass with ruthless efficiency, a grim resolve, and impenetrable methods, he'd kept the crime rate from sky rocketing through the roof once the crooks of Jump City saw their opportunity. As the rumor went, he never left a case unsolved, and never let any shmuck worm his way out of court with expensive attorneys and technicalities. He didn't care who you were, what you were, or who you _used_ to be…when you found yourself sitting behind his sleek, shiny metal table, you were on _his_ turf, and not even superpowers were going to help you.

…And that's exactly where Cyborg was now…

Barlavoni eyed him for a moment, smiling ever so slightly before he leaned back in his seat with a content sigh, lifting a clipboard from the table and carelessly fiddling with his moustache as he read.

"Well, while you _were_ part of the Titans, there was a poll taken about which one of you guys was most popular with the city. Got the results right here." He flicked the corner of the board, glancing back up Cyborg like a tweed-suited lawyer.

Cyborg found himself sighing again, glancing at the one-way glass that covered two of the walls, just knowing that behind one of them there was a green-skinned Changeling probably slapping his knee for the execution of a perfectly self-constructed gag.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Barlavoni, but what does that have to do with why I'm here?"

Barlavoni rolled the cigar around in his mouth, his eyes never leaving the paper.

"You came in dead last in every magazine. Most powerful, most unique, most popular...all had you coming in fifth." He flipped the paper over, taking a long sip from his coffee and resting his feet up on the table as casually as he would sit at his own breakfast table. "While on the _other_ hand, your good pal Beast Boy was nearly ridding number 1 in every category. Hmmmm."

Cyborg pushed himself up so that both his elbows rested on the table. What was all this talk with his life back in the Titans? What the hell did this have to do with the fact that he was at the police station with his dinner burning back at his apartment? One way or the other, acting peeved was not going to get him out of here. Cyborg answered slowly, calmly

"Please, Mr. Barlavoni, can you just tell me why I'm here? Nobody has been kind enough to clue me in yet."

The police chief's eyes slowly peered over the clipboard, a furry, left eyebrow raised slightly. "Oh." He said matter-or-factly. "Well, _that _one's not too hard to explain."

He took his feet from the corner of the table, reaching for something on the floor.

"This was found earlier on today at a crime-scene. Your good pal, Mr. Logan identified it as yours."

He straightened in his seat, sliding something in a shiny plastic bag across the table. Cyborg placed his and over it and slowly lowered his eyes to his communicator. He felt a queer little twinge of surprise…as if that'd been the last thing on Earth he'd suspected to of seen in that bag. He glanced back up to Barlavoni who replaced the cigar back into his mouth. "Care to explain how your communicator was found by the body of Mr. Logan's assistant? From what I recall, the two of you and Mr. Logan weren't exactly in the best of terms with each other when you two last met. Wanted to frighten him?"

Cyborg pushed himself back in his seat, this face masked in the ever recognizable expression of somebody being accused.

"We had an argument…but it's not like it was anything that make me kill his secretary!"

Barlavoni beckoned with his cigar. "And the communicator?"

Cyborg responded shakily, unsurely. Despite the fact that there was no way in hell he could have snuffed Beast Boy's assistant and dropped his communicator which he'd thrown out over two weeks ago; every word he said sounded shaky and unsure…his very body movements seemed like some guilty street punk put on the spot.

"I'm not sure how it got there. I threw it out almost two weeks ago."

"Why?"

Cyborg paused a bit longer than he should have…mostly in part to the fact that he didn't exactly know the answer. He'd been angry, frustrated, depressed…. And recklessly so. It'd been something Beast Boy had said during their little _exchange_ of words that'd promptly shattered their four year friendship over a month ago. For a while, Cyborg was only able to think about what Beast Boy had shouted as he was storming away. A certain something that Beast Boy would have never of said had he of known just how much it'd make Cyborg question his existence as a Titan and as a person. A certain something that had made everything reminiscent of Cyborg and Beast Boy's years as a Teen Titan blurred with a deep, gutful loathing of each other. Cyborg's keepsakes of the tower had been tossed and the _Beast Boy Show_ had been changed to the _Garfield Logan Show_.

Barlavoni's loud, phlegm-full throat being clear quickly snapped Cyborg into the present. Barlavoni blinked, removing his cigar realizing full well that the metal man across from him didn't have an answer.

"Let me tell you what _I_ think may have happened."

Cyborg said nothing…there was nothing really he _could_ say.

Barlavoni removed moved his huge cigar over a tiny, neat ash-tray on the table, flicking it with his pinky after every word.

"It's no secret that Mr. Logan and you had a fight. A big fight that somehow sat out long enough for the press to catch wind of it. It was all over the papers for a little while…and…like before with the polls, people took Beast Boy's side. That's mostly why _his_ show became a raging success and why _you_ are now some cubicle slave working for twenty hours a week for minimal wage. Reduced to kissing ass just to bring the bacon home while Mr. Logan uses wads of twenty dollar bills to wipe his ass. Must be awfully hard to cope with."

He paused, giving the cigar one last mighty flick with his ring finger. "N_obody_ likes to lose, Mr. Stone, and believe me; nobody has lost more than you." A breathy sigh. "So I guess the question is…how well you can deal with this situation you've been put in. Gracefully...or not so gracefully. Forgive and forget…or throw it in for some good ol' fashioned payback. Awfully tough decision…especially for someone as powerful as yourself."

Cyborg found himself shifting in his seat, unable to keep eye contact with glassy gaze of the police chief as he once again leaned onto the table, fingers tented against his moustache; comfortably aware of the fact that the tin man was completely entangled in his complex web of verbal traps and oral ambushes. Every word he said was easily processed, analyzed and countered. He seemed more suited for a job as an lawyer than a hard-boiled detective.

"Now I know that you're perfectly capable of breaking from this room, exploding through this station, and killing _me_ if you really wanted to. We just have guns…it'd take a lot more than that to stop you. You could kill every single one of us." He smiled. "Bu-u-u-t I have a detective's intuition that you wouldn't do something like that, would you. You're not that type of person. A big guy like you with unsurpassable strength and durability could get away with anything he wanted to providing he didn't make mistakes…but you decided to join a team of super-powered pre-pubescents to try and make a difference in this city. So…after all those years of glory and respect…how then could you let one argument pressure you to kill the citizens you spent five years of your life protecting? Most likely because…I think that this murder had absolutely nothing to do with you."

Cyborg's ears perked up, a progressively enlarging weight suddenly rolling off his chest. He let out one prolonged sigh. "I'm glad we're finally seeing eye to eye on this matter, Mr. Barlavoni."

Barlavoni grinned, giving a shoulder-to-ear shrug. "Oh, I had a strong hunch that you probably weren't involved…I just had to bring you down here to make sure. Once I saw your face it was pretty damn obvious that you weren't a killer. Never have been, never will be."

Something panged in the back of Cyborg's mind once again, making him avert his gaze and blink. "Yeah..." He responded dumbly

Barlavoni grin slowly melted into a discouraged, almost disappointed frown, his gaze also falling to the table. "However…" He sighed. "This brings up new questions to the actual culprit of Nathaniel Howard's murder. With you out of the picture…this leads me to another conclusion…the one I really wasn't hopping would come up when pertaining to murders."

Cyborg rose from his seat, still tingling from relief. "I thought there had been only one body found so far."

Barlavoni remained seated, his left hand removing his well spent cigar and jamming it face-first into the ashtray, twisting it from side to side like a shoe over a crushed insect.

"One body…" He repeated slowly. "But there are five Titans."

Ending Author's Note: Well, the cast has pretty much been introduced…with exception of two more characters (One OC, one character from actual show) that are yet to be introduced in future chapters. Just say if you think that there are too many OC's and not enough Titans. I just think that OC's are good for fanfictions and add an element of unexpectedness to it all. Oh well, whatever you opinions may be, I'll definitely consider them providing it doesn't conflict with the plot. Until next time! I'll do my best to update!


	8. Chapter 8 O Fortuna

Author's Note: Sorry I haven't updated in a while, and I am sincere about that. I sacrificed a goat to the nomadic gods and swore off water for two weeks in order to be forgiven. Anywho, this is the next chapter, one that gives you something to chew on and possible insight to future events. It's not as simple as it seems! And now, without further adu, here is chapter eight.

_S.T.A.R. Labs; bringing you new horizons._

_Since our initial founding in 1925, that has been our pledge and for over eighty years we have lived by it, taking ideas that have been deemed impossible to achieve less than a decade ago and making them available on the shelves of your shopping centers today. We ARE the leading government-backed cooperation of scientific advancement in the world, our scientists among the most brilliant, and the range of our expertise unlimited. It is our aim to bring our research directly to you into your homes; to make your lives easier, safer, and as always…more advanced. The light of our knowledge has unveiled the darkest corners of our world, probed deeply into the mysteries of the human mind, and has even shone boldly in the dark reaches of space. It is only a matter of time before our research allows us to gain such knowledge that will allow us to overcome all the vices that press upon human kind giving us the knowledge to make us truly invulnerable._

"Are you done waiting around, Mr. Logan? We _really_ need to get back to the studio."

Beast Boy slowly let his head roll over the edge of the wooden seat in the police station's guest room as a clean, middle-aged woman's voice continued to narrate from television perched in the corner of the room, a very prominent five pointed star emblem slowly spinning on the center of the screen. He pushed himself upright, batting the crumbs of five dollars worth of vending machine goodies from the front of his suit. He'd been sitting around in this office for nearly sixty minutes, and had been in the same god-damn chair for nearly fifty of them. He didn't even bother glancing over his shoulder, instead, he only brought a hand to the back of his neck, wincing.

Jesus, only twenty years old and already having to deal pains in the necks and pains in the ass. "Hex, if I wanted your input that badly, I'd of hired you as my mother. One missed show isn't going to kill me." He finally paused, turning himself around in his seat. "Didn't I tell you to wait in the limo?"

The commercial continued on, the voice muffled by the ringing phones and other idle office noise. Hex dragged a hand across his scalp, his thick glasses fogged up like a windshield in a rainstorm. "I just got a call from Mr. Jameson. He says that Mrs. Kinsley is threatening to walk off the show if you don't show up within ten minutes! Please, you-"

Hex stopped as three quarters and a nickel were tossed rather unceremoniously at him from over Beast Boy's shoulder whose eyes were still absently watching the television. "Tell you what Hex, if you buy me another bag a cashews from the vending machines and high tail it back to the limo, I'll give you a week's vacation whenever you want it. How's about that, huh?"

Hex readjusted his glasses, giving another indignant huff before finally bending down to scoop up the change from the floor. "Why do you have to be so difficult?" He muttered, stepping around the waiting room chairs. Beast Boy nonchalantly kicked him in the calf in response as he passed, eyes never leaving the television.

The S.T.A.R Labs advertisement was still going, running over two minutes despite the fact that they weren't even selling anything. Beast Boy sighed, sinking further into his seat. Big industries were just like politicians; they're overstuffed, desperate for attention, and made shitty advertisements. They just want to make sure that you didn't forget who they were when it came time to pay up the taxes. As if in response, the star in the middle of the morphed into the letters S, T, A, and R as an infomercial-like piano tune played in the background as the commercial concluded.

…_Here in S.T.A.R Labs, we're working to expand our knowledge beyond anything before with research methods that can safely bring the most advanced technology directly into your homes and show you new horizons. _

_S.T.A.R. Labs, bringing you tomorrow today. _

_Egotistical_ _pricks._ Beast Boy huffed as the image faded out with a small little crescendo, the screen soon filled with a much more preferable beer commercial with a much more preferable female narrator with a much more preferable set of jugs. He glanced over at the rest of the office, yawning absently, his cowlick bobbing down in front of his left eye. God he was bored; hanging around the police station waiting for an old friend who wasn't exactly a 'friend' anymore could hardly compare to being back in his studio coaxing clothes off an ex-supermodel.

Still, though….he found himself continuing to sit there, twiddling his thumbs like a kid at the principles office. He knew that Cyborg was never a guy to really hold a grudge; as long as you stayed away from his blue-prints, away from his T-car, and away from Raven, he was the biggest mechanical teddy-bear in Jump City. Such a softie that Beast Boy quite frankly had no idea why their last argument had taken so long to boil over...or what the damn thing had been _about_ for that matter. For him, it'd simply been issues of pride, letting the argument leave him with nothing more than a smarting ego and a spoiled sense of nostalgia. Cyborg, however, had been hurt.

_Genuinely_ hurt.

Beast Boy had no idea that something coming out of his mouth could possibly do that to someone, especially someone like Cyborg? Usually it'd take an explosive to even get his attention, let alone some passing wise-crack. But then again, Beast Boy knew that there was a whole lot more than booyahs and circuitry when it came to the powerhouse of the titans. More than any of them were willing to learn in fact.

Well, maybe not _all_ of them.

If anything had resulted from those events that'd led to Raven's bus to motherhood, it'd be that deep, almost suspicious friendship that Raven and Cyborg had developed after it all blew over. A deep and snuggly type of friendship that he'd been tailgating for nearly four years. It wasn't so much that they spent an increasing amount of time together…it was the fact that Cyborg could actually make her _smile_…even if he didn't mean to. She'd laugh at his stories, she'd laugh at his mistakes, hell, she'd probably of passed a giggle if he'd just lifted leg and let out a roaring robo-fart out of some exhaust pipe. And the worse thing was that nobody seemed to notice this except _him_…nobody cared about this except him! Nobody minded…except-

Beast Boy stopped, suddenly remembering what the argument had been about.

A bag of peanuts collided with the side of his head, snapping him out of his stupor completely.

"They were out of cashews." Hex stated simply, brushing by Beast Boy like disgusted schoolgirl. Beast Boy glanced after him frowning deeply snatched up the peanuts off the floor, tearing the top of them open as irritably as a farmer snapping the head off a chicken. He straightened himself in his chair, half-lidded eyes watching his assistant leave, tipping several peanuts into his mouth. He chewed once, twice, then frowned even deeper.

_Wise-ass…he knows I hate honey roasted…_

The door whisked open for a second, letting a cool breathy gust of city air into the police station as Hex made a little half-run, half-stumble back to the limo. Beast Boy popped another peanut into his mouth with another shoulder-to-ear sigh, slowly glimpsing up to the television once again. He'd give it ten more minutes, maybe fifteen if the T.V. would get back to the show he was watching.

The door opened again, sending another cold gust of moist air into the room, smelling of rain, car exhaust, garbage…and something else, something that raised the hairs on Beast Boy's neck like a lover's breath. It smelt like a hospital, a sweetly thick scent of medicine, sedatives, and drugs. It almost made him lightheaded, a tingling sense of nostalgia brining his hand to his left arm. He glanced over his shoulder, towards the door, his teeth tightly biting together.

The first thing that he noticed was how incredibly thin the man was. Thin and _tall_. The stark black suite that he wore looked like it was resting on nothing more than a coat rack. He stood motionless, his left and casually holding a black umbrella, still shining from the rain, that hid his entire head like a mushroom. The entire room seemed to quiet down for a moment; workers lowering their phones, glancing up from their paperwork, and even glancing out from around corners. The spell lasted a good four seconds before the man snapped shut the umbrella, and lowered it to his side like a cane, quickly dispelling most of the stares and prompting the officers back to their work. Only Beast Boy remained staring, unconsciously slipping another peanut into his mouth, getting a good look at the man's face.

He was smiling, a deep confident grin just shy of showing his teeth. His hair was so blonde it was nearly white neatly conforming to the shape of his head like a second skin. Narrow, fox-like eyes circled the room, the pupils so huge that the whites of his eyes where all but invisible. For an odd moment, he reminded Beast Boy of a crocodile, lithe, crafty, and smiling, like a character on an old noir film. He looked at least fifty and unmistakably smart, a very unique type of smart. You could see it in his eyes; a cool, ancient know-how that you don't get in a class-room, but through experience. He continued to maintain his crocodile-like grin surveying the room with a happy, breathy sigh.

Beast Boy continued frowning, tossing down several more peanuts and dragging a sleeve across his mouth. The man let out one final smirk and continued across the room, his stroll as fast and erratic as a character in a silent black-and-white movie. He stopped at the front desk, leaning over nearly to ninety degrees to speak with the rather disturbed looking receptionist, who glanced up at him through large black-rimmed glasses like a child does to a stranger who knows their name. He said something completely in audible and removed a small card from his wallet, showing it to the woman with a genuine smile. She quickly nodded and picked up a phone, quickly dialing in a number. He man straightened back up, watching the woman with a confident, half-lidded gaze. Beast Boy continued to watch him, periodically tossing peanuts into his mouth.

As if sensing his gaze, the man's head turned, nearly completely over his shoulder, meeting his gaze, his face blank, eyes unreadable. His entire face was visible now, the fluorescent lights almost glowing off his almond like skin like an image through a rainy windshield, his eyes remaining as dark and undefined as ink blots.

Almost immediately, Beast Boy lowered his gaze, raising a fist to his mouth and coughing several times, adoring the television once again. It might have been rude, but Beast Boy had no intention of maintain eye contact with this guy.

_Ne-ver smile at a croc-o-dile…_

After about ten seconds, he chanced another forlorn glance over his shoulder once again to see if the creep was still staring at him. He wasn't. In fact, he wasn't even standing at the receptionist desk anymore. Beast Boy quickly straightened in his seat, sweeping the room twice, his gut tightening. But that smiling tuxedo wearing scare-crow was gone. The receptionist was back on the phone, the doors were closed, and that _smell_ gone.

He slowly found himself standing up, tempted to run up to the receptionist to confirm that the Mr. Smiling Crocodile had even been there in the first place. Who the hell _was_ that guy?

Beast Boy swallowed hard and turned around, re-adjusting his tie as he did so…and found him nose colliding rather suddenly with a quite metal chest plate. He jumped, his bag of peanuts falling from his hand and clattering across the floor like marbles.

"Fuck!" Beast Boy yelled, falling backwards onto his bottom, hand clasping his nose.

Cyborg only grinned, lowering a hand. "Well," He said. "I guess after all these years you've never learned to watch where you're going."

Beast Boy huffed loudly, swatting Cyborg's hand away and standing up. He could tell by Cyborg's eye, the _human_ one at least, that he wasn't angry, in fact he looked almost amused by the whole thing. That was probably a good thing, considering the fact that he himself wasn't exactly at heart's ease at the moment. He straightened his tie, raising a brow.

"So you plead guilty or what?"

Cyborg smiled, hands resting on his hips. "The police chief didn't think I had anything to do with it." He lowered his gaze momentarily. "I'm sorry to hear about your assistant."

Beast Boy shrugged a little too casually, this wasn't what he wanted to talk about. "Not much I could have done about it; they said that he must have been nabbed on the street after work."

"Any idea who…you know…did it?"

Beast Boy shrugged again, picking up a peanut off the floor and casually popping it into his mouth. "Well, considering the fact that _you_ were the prime suspect…I guess not."

Inevitable silence.

Cyborg finally smirked, patting Beast Boy on the shoulder. "You know, you look taller on your show." It was the truth. The few times that Cyborg had actually brought himself to flip to channel 04 at 9:00, he'd always caught glimpses of his former friend, and watched as he had slowly outgrew his past. First the hairdo disappeared, replaced with a comb-over, then the genuine silliness replaced with snide wit, then his obvious shortness. At least now Cyborg could take comfort in knowing that the last change was most likely the result of a cushion under his chair instead of an actual growth spurt.

Beast Boy's confident smirked dropped down into a rather neutral line at this comment, unsure how to react to it. Finally, deciding it must have been in good humor he sighed and returned the snide grin.

"It's been a while, hasn't it?" He finally said. "Look, I know that I might have said some pretty shitty things back then…a-a-a-a-and I guess that…" A low sigh. "I owe you an apology."

Cyborg shrugged absently, he knew that Beast Boy enjoyed apologizing as much as he did being called 'boy'. He'd save him the trouble of this one. He interrupted, still grinning. "We'll call it even if you give me a lift back to my apartment."

Beast Boy returned the grin, extending his hand.

"Deal."

_**xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx**_

Cyborg had seen some nice limos before, living in the apartment one or two streets down from one of the fanciest restaurants in town did give him front row seats for celebrity limo watching. Beast Boy's wasn't any exception; stretching down as far as seven windows, completely starch black, and more probably more expensive than the four year rent of his apartment. It did, however, look a bit…small. Especially now, with him standing outside of it, the roof barely reaching his midriff.

Beast Boy patted Cyborg heavily on the back, oblivious to the relative size issue and nonchalantly opened the fifth door down. "You'll have to come by and chat sometime, I'll show you around back-stage at my show."

He smiled, beckoning for his old friend to step in like an erratic green-skinned doorman. It was a tight squeeze to fit in, especially for his shoulders, which made an awfully large bulge in the frame of the door as he finally fit inside. The limo sagged momentarily under his weight with an audible squeal, the back bumper bouncing against the curb like a weighted boat. Cyborg shut the door, lowering his head to avoid giving the limo a new sunroof and raising his knees to his chest. He cleared his throat and readjusted himself several times over as Beast Boy high-tail around the limo and climb into the passenger seat, a newspaper held over his head to keep himself out of the rain.

Already behind the wheel, a spectacle wearing man in his late sixties idly sat reading a paperback, not even turning to acknowledge the fact that a nearly nine hundred passenger had just climbed in.

The passenger door swung open as Beast Boy leapt in, shaking the water out of his hair like freshly bathed puppy. The man behind the wheel flipped a page with a white gloved hand, sighing.

"Ready to go, Mr. Logan?"

Beast Boy nodded, throwing on a seatbelt and glancing over through a small window between the front and back seats like an enthused taxi driver.

"Cyborg, I'd like to introduce to you my personal taxi driver Willy Dunbar."

Dunbar's only response was to simply put down the paper back and shove a large shiny key into the ignition with an inaudible sigh.

Cyborg craned his neck to try to meet his eye through the rear-view mirror, but was cut off by Beat Boy again as he pointed to the seat next to Cyborg. "And the little guy you're practically sitting on is Harry Hesmond."

Cyborg glanced over, almost startled to find a lanky, dripping man practically under his left thigh. If Cyborg's weight was hurting him, his wide eyed stare through a pair of huge foggy glasses revealed none of it.

Cyborg blinked and extended his hand smiling nervously. "Er, hello Mr. Hesmond."

Instantly, the man's hands clasped his in a double grip, vigorously shaking, his head nodding in disbelief. "Please, call me Hex! It's my nickname!" He paused for a second, grinning like an embarrassed schoolgirl, almost blushing. "It's an absolute honor to meet a previous Teen Titan, you were always me favorite! I'm so glad that you decided to remain here in town!"

Cyborg smiled uncomfortably, trying to politely reclaim his hand which was still vibrating like a freshly plucked guitar chord.

_Like I had a choice…_

"Well…okay, er, Hex. Pleased to meet you."

Beast Boy noted the situation with a huff before calling through the window again. "Don't be bothered by him, he gets star-struck by shiny things. He's like a bird."

Hex ignored this statement completely, biting his lip and nearly giggling. Beast Boy tossed an arm over his seat, looking at Cyborg fully and smirking. "So, where's this shit-hole apartment you were talking about?"

Cyborg glanced through the window, still trying to pull his hand away from the star-struck assistant. "It's uh, on the other side of town. Take the 106."

Beast Boy nodded at the driver who instantly revved up the engine and throttled down the street, pushing Cyborg back against the cushions with speeds not meant for thirty foot long limos on crowded roads. Cyborg righted himself.

_Jesus, what type of drivers does Beast Boy hire?_

Beast Boy continued glancing at him from over his seat, completely oblivious to the honking horns and scuttling people as the skedaddled out of the way. "So, what have you been up to all this time? You still got a job right?"

Cyborg finally managed to yank his hand away from the awe-struck assistant in an effort less than subtle. "Yeah."

The limo veered left, causing everyone to tilt noticeably for a second or two before being able to right themselves. Beast Boy continued regardless. "That's good. Robin says that his new job is working out perfectly, he's just been promoted to the head of Wayne Enterprises just two weeks before his wedding."

Cyborg shook his head, as if recovering from a severe backhand. "Wait, what wedding?"

Beast Boy smiled at him, a smile which clearly faded as he realized that his metallic passenger wasn't kidding. He blinked, eyes growing wide. "You haven't heard?"

Cyborg could only shake his head. He hadn't heard anything from Robin since he split from Jump City.

Beast Boy slapped his head, almost unbelievingly. "I can't believe this! Robin and Starfire are going to get married! You didn't know? Jesus, I mean even Raven's heard about it, and she's in another continent!"

Cyborg stopped for a moment to swallow a boiling mouthful of hurt as the limo took another hard left, causing Cyborg to nearly crush the wide-eyed Hex sitting next to him. He had gotten used to being kept in the dark for most of the things that happened to his fellow titans, but something as big as a wedding should have at _least_ reached him _eventually_, it wasn't like he'd simply disappeared off the face of the earth, right?

"I…must have missed the memo." Was all he could say, scratching the back of his head and inspecting his feet.

Beast Boy laughed, slapping his seat. "Damn, Cy, I knew that you've been out of the loop for a while, but this takes the cake. Next thing you're gonna tell me is that you've forgotten where Raven's moved to!"

Cyborg's eyes lowered. At least he could take small comfort in knowing that _that_ would never happen. Raven had been the one titan that had bothered contacting him after all this time, hand-written and brief as letters may have been. He'd kept them all, like a pack-rat, leaving the occasional letter from Adeline hung up on the fridge, usually with a small, hand-drawn picture behind that she always used to send with every note she sent. She'd be turning eleven on her next birthday, and already she was spelling in cursive with better grammar than he. She was only up to his knee the last time he'd seen her, god knew what she must look like now…god knows what her _mother_ looked like now. Five years was a lot of time to grow up, for both Raven and Adeline. Although a couple bags under the eyes and slightly less shiny armor was the closest to aging he _could_ sport, five years could have done anything to Raven. Extra pounds, sullen attitude, hell maybe even a drinking problem…

But no…

He knew that she'd still be the same Raven as when she'd gotten on that plane, a very tired Adeline sleeping on her back. Somehow, he knew that nothing would really change her, just as nothing could really change him. She would only get prettier, maybe taller, but her eyes would always be the same. That was something he just knew.

The car squealed to a stop, exploding a puddle next to the curb and seriously pissing off several civilians. Cyborg glanced out the window as Beast Boy glanced down to his stop-watch.

"Jesus, Dunbar, I'll never cease to be amazed on your driving."

Dunbar didn't respond. He was reading his book.

Cyborg glanced out his window. Sure enough, his apartment building waited for him outside, a small stream of people filtering in and out of the doors. Cyborg quickly found himself sighing at the sight of it, reaching down and opening the door, an entire sheet of rain instantly cascading down onto him. Beast Boy snatched an umbrella from beside him and also hurried out, telling a non-responsive Dunbar to leave the motor running.

Hex instantly slid into the spot where Cyborg had been sitting, leaving a rather large indentation in the cushions. "Please stop by the studio, Mr. Cyborg sir! I'd love to get to know you better!"

"Queer." Dunbar muttered, flipping a page nonchalantly.

"I'll uh, try to. Take care, Mr. Hesmond."

"Oh, please, call me He-"

Cyborg shut the door rather firmly, clearing his throat as Beast Boy came around the front of the limo. He was smirking as usual, eying Cyborg as if over shades. "I think he likes you." He said, pointing to his head to the limo window which still had a waving Hex on the far side. Cyborg huffed, turning towards the door to the apartment building. "If only it worked on women, eh?" He called half jokingly.

_If only…_

Beast Boy laughed again. "_Still_ don't have a girlfriend, Cy? Tough luck for a guy who can bench-press a train." He lowered his gaze even more, bouncing his eyebrows. "If yah want, I could…you know…help you out. Maybe set you up with a cute girl I know who works backstage. Black guys are her type, y'know."

Cyborg raised an eyebrow patting Beast Boy on the shoulder. "I'm gonna have to pass on that one, BB. If I wanted romantic advice, I'd be safer taking it from Raven."

Beast Boy scoffed, batting his arm away in good humor. "Suite yourself, big guy, but if you remember just what happened to her last-"

The force of the explosion hit sooner than the sound. It felt almost like a instantaneous blast in pressure, causing both their ears to pop before there was a bellowing roar, almost exactly like that of a tiger, and a piercing hot wall of heat blasted the two titans off their feet like golf balls from the tees. Cyborg saw a surge of red, orange, and black swell out of the second story window not thirty feet away as a searing fireball literally came screeching from the side of the building like a fist. Upon instinct, he lashed out, snatching the collar of his green companion as he went airborne, and bringing him into a bear hug as the wall of flames passed over them moments later. His back collided with the side of the limo with enough force to bend it like a boomerang, every window shattering from the impact and nearly flipping it over.

After a second, Cyborg couldn't see anything, both his organic and sensor eye completely overloaded with the sheer brightness and heat. He could hear screams of citizens around them, debris clattering on the pavement, and what sounded like a woman screaming from the backseat of the limo. His organic skin had been genuinely singed, already it felt taught, brittle like bad sunburn. He swallowed hard, finally managing to force open his left eye.

In the side of the apartment building, spewing black, acrid smoke like a vertical volcano was a crater. Flaming shrapnel and rubble toppled from it like spittle from a hellish demon's mouth, the very air smelling of burnt gas, smoke, and mind-splitting heat. He winced, as he tried to get up, a speechless crispy Beast Boy still sitting wide-eyed next to him, face blackened with ash and coughing periodically. There was still quite a fire going on inside, roaring uncontrollably through the crater like a mirror into hell as rain continued to pour down from the far side, sizzling out is sweltering heaves. Cyborg righted himself suddenly as sirens wailed in the distance. He knew which apartment that was…he knew who lived there…and he knew just who'd be in that explosion right now if he'd gotten inside a moment's sooner.

That had been _his_ apartment…

As smoke continued to pour from the building's open would, Cyborg let himself fall back against the limo once again as a shower of fire and water cascaded down around him.

Author's Note: Yeah, I decided that this story could use some…_explosive_…development. pauses, swallows, loosens collar Anywho, I hoped you enjoyed the chapter. I have a week vacation coming up and I hope that I'll be able to review more regularly. And if you have any questions, concerns or suggestions, please leave them in your review. If you don't have any questions, concerns or suggestions….well, humor me and write a review anyway! Until next time, friends!


	9. Chapter 9 Adagio

Author's Note: Hello, everybody, I'm back from a very bountiful Thanksgiving vacation! Although I am still bloated from mashed potatoes and egg-nog, I still managed to roll my self to my laptop and jot out the next chapter. It is rather short, but introduces an important character. I won't give anything away...don't worry, but I will say that he will be in future chapters, along with the rest of the cast. Future chapters are going to be mainly focused on a Cyborg and Raven interaction. Just to give you a hint, everything will tie together at the end! Cyborg's past, the reason of the murders, the actual killer's identity, the return of another character from the show, and of course, whether or not our two favorite titans finally do what we all want them to (that's right, there might be romance in this story...maybe...perhaps...) So, anyway, Happy belated Thanksgiving everybody!

(And as you probably know, a vacation on the coast with the entire nomadic family has a tendency for keeping me from I appologize to anyone who's stories I haven't been able to review.)

"Beethoven?"

Barlavoni finished pouring his drink, noting the radio on the counter with a raised bushy brow.

"Chopin." He replied dryly to the voice in the doorway. "It's the Waltz in C sharp minor. Helps me relax."

The chief of police didn't particularly like unexpected guests. _Especially_ unexpected guests that just happen to show up during his drinking hour. He sat back in his seat, screwing the cap back on his flask and promptly placing it back into his pocket. He took a leisurely sip, eying the figure in the doorway with an already skeptical stare. Unless this guy was here with some really good news, he'd have to jump through some pretty fiery hoops to get Barlavoni's co-operation…but somehow he already knew that this guy wasn't here to award him an early retirement.

Sharon had said some _creepy_ guy was coming in to see him, and Sharon was a tough little girl who'd grown up in a big city. You'd have to be quite a sight on the eyes for her to categorize you under 'creepy'.

At least this guy wasn't far from it.

Barlavoni could already sense a bad air around him.

Due to a combined effort of thirty years of police experience and two shots of hard whiskey for every day of them, Barlavoni had developed a certain _feeling_ when meeting new people. This feeling acted almost as a sixth sense, the fabled 'detective's intuition' that Barlavoni had more appropriately nicknamed his 'Whiskey Inkling'. His Whiskey Inkling had been a key factor in one or more investigations and had influenced several important decisions that had led to several _important_ people being punted behind bars. It had also been the reason behind Barlavoni's confidence of Cyborg's innocence. Some could call it a gut feeling, others could call it bum guessing, but one way or the other, Barlavoni could always get a taste of who someone truly was just by looking at them. Nothing that would hold water in courts…but anything than hard evidence really did nowadays.

However, with this guy it wouldn't take an Exeter spawned psychiatrist to see that something was off about him.

He had a certain…smell…that had entered the room before he did, the type of smell that turned heads in a restaurant. Not because it smelt offensive, per say, but instead was so utterly alien and out of place that you just simply _had_ to find its source.

In this case, Barlavoni finally decided that the guy smelt like a surgery room. An almost-sweet smell of medicine, drugs, and nauseating gases. Barlavoni hated hospitals…and hated being interrupted during Whiskey Hour. This was _not_ going to be an enjoyable visit…for either of them.

The figure stepped into the room fully, his hair illuminating in the overhead light like an aura around his head, his sunken eyes instantly becoming shadowed smudges.

He was smiling.

"My…mistake. I'm afraid that I'm not so familiar with…classical composers, I keep on getting them confused at my…old age."

His accent became apparent immediately, causing Barlavoni to glance up with furrowed brow. It was definitely a southern accent…the deep _deep_ southern accent that rooted back to old plantation owners living in Louisiana during the early 1800s. His 'sirs' sounded more like 'sahs' and his breathy abbreviations turned his sentences into an unbroken, flowing stream of very punctual words. His voice itself was actually very soft, almost high pitched, and as smooth and unbroken as a silk blanket. Still more peculiar than these, though, was his irregular way of pausing in his sentences…sometimes for no apparent reason; almost like he was carefully considering each word before actually speaking, taking all the time in the world.

Yup…this guy was one of your authentic, top-of-the-line creeps.

Barlavoni frowned and downed his drink, bringing it onto his desk with a satisfying rattle of ice-cubes. He dragged a cuff across his moustache and stared up at the stranger's eyes for the first time. "Don't apologize, everyone forgets things sooner or later." He sighed again, tenting his fingers on his stomach. "Can I help you?"

The man's smile widened, revealing a line of perfectly straight, just off-white teeth. His hands remained clasped behind his back as he spoke, his strangely thin chest pushed forward like an expectant butler.

"Actually Mr. Barlavoni, sir, I was hoping that I could possibly assist _you_. With your…investigation."

It was then Barlavoni noted the crisp, flawless suit, the overbearing confidence, and even taught, proud stance. Oh yeah, there was no mistaking it now.

"Christ…" Barlavoni muttered, running a hand through his hair. "You're from the FBI, aren't you."

The man continued smiling and removed a badge from his wallet with a small little flourish, flipping it open in front of the distressed police chief's face. "Special Agent Jeremiah Hobbs. I am very happy to meet you Mr. Barlavoni."

Barlavoni sighed, his already sour mood quickly curdling into something even more rotten. "Spare me the pleasantries, Hobbs. I know now you suits work. You move in, take our crime-scene, take our investigation, and take our credit. I've lost plenty-a-cases thanks to FBI _assistance_."

Jeremiah Hobbs tilted his head to the side, sliding his badge back into his coat where it promptly disappeared. He acted as if Barlavoni hadn't even spoke. "You see, Mr. Barlavoni, I specialize in…certain types of cases. Cases that we like to keep…as private as possible."

Barlavoni gave a shoulder-to-ear huff, nodding his head and glancing over the tall man's shoulder with a skeptical smirk.

"So where are the rest of your boys, huh? You suits never show up to a place alone, you're like cockroaches. I bet there's a load of you badge flashin' bastards loitering around the waiting room."

Jeremiah Hobbs simply lowered his head and grinned, shaking his head from side to side as if enjoying a private joke. "There's nobody else, Mr. Barlavoni…just me. I assure you that I'll be the only…badge flashin' bastard that bothers you."

Barlavoni's eyes slowly slid halfway shut in an unimpressed stare, obviously discontent about being quoted. Jeremiah Hobbs noted this and gave a small head bow, continuing on with a slight chuckle. "Please don't get me wrong, Mr. Barlavoni, I want to work _with_ you in this investigation. You can call the shots, you can make your decisions; all that I'll do is simply…give my _input_."

Barlavoni didn't stop frowning, but he did stop scouring. "Now since when does the FBI start throwing out individual agents to for routine murders?"

Jeremiah Hobbs slowly stared up at him through half-lidded eyes, his smile never shrinking. "I am…shall we say…a _very_ special agent, Mr. Barlavoni, and I am _very_ good at what I do. If I work with you on this investigation, maybe we can both accomplish what we want."

Barlavoni shifted in his seat, eyes narrowing. "Now wait just a minute, just which investigation are you talking about here?"

Jeremiah Hobbs seated himself at the far end of the table, sliding into his seat as subtly and quietly as a cat, his eyes never leaving the police chief's. "Earlier today, if I'm not mistaken, you came across a body. A body that…I believe as your coroner put it while I spoke with him…was outfitted to resemble a certain Garfield Logan who was a previous…Teen Titan. The body showed signs of very…grim torture methods, and merciless cruelty. You have no suspects, no evidence, and little time before the killer strikes again." His grin widened once more. "_That_…Mr. Barlavoni…is the case I wish to assist you in solving."

Barlavoni scratched his nose, squinting at the FBI agent. "We got that body less than twelve hours ago…how the hell did you manage to hear about it?"

Jeremiah Hobbs merely shrugged and responded very nonchalantly. "As I previously stated, Mr. Barlavoni, I am _very_ good at what I do." He tilted his head to the side, raising a wry brow. "So…which is it going to be? Are you going to let me…assist you in a murder that may eventually become a spree, or are you going to refuse and cause me to bring paper and ink into this? Either way is acceptable to me."

Barlavoni finally broke eye contact and removed one of his cigars, resignedly lighting it up and giving a long thoughtful puff. "I'll need some time to think about it, Mr. FBI agent. I ain't never solved a case before working _with_ a suit."

Jeremiah Hobbs literally bowed at a near ninety degrees, obviously pleased. "Of course, Mr. Barlavoni, but do remember, that the clock is ticking." He straightened, a very unsettling smile once again curving his lips. "You and I _both_ know that the murders…won't stop with one."

Barlavoni gave another puff, his eyes laced with an non-to-subtle glint that effectively conveyed the message that it was time for the FBI agent to note the door. Jeremiah Hobbs's noted this with a smiling sigh and very slowly removed a shiny plastic card from an invisible pocket in his suit.

"That's my card." He said simply tossing it onto the table and slowly turning towards the door, readjusting his suit collar. "Please feel free to send me a message…if you make up your mind. I _truly_ hope you do accept my proposition…" He paused as he reached the door, speaking very lucidly over his shoulder. "…for as my momma always said…two heads _are_ better than one to get the job done, Mr. Barlavoni."

Barlavoni left the card sitting on the table, his cigar quickly being reduced to a stub by deep, unhappy inhalations as long grey billows of smoke continuously fumed from his nostrils like an overworked furnace. He didn't like this. He didn't like one God damned bit.

He finally leaned forward to finally read the card. A phone number. And nothing else. No address, no name, no verification of authenticity. Ain't that just like a cocky FBI agent.

Barlavoni glanced up to the door just before the gangly silhouette disappeared. "And where will you be, exactly, until I make up my mind, Mr. Hobbs?"

Jeremiah Hobbs stopped, turning half-way around like a very leisurely wind-chime. His left eye caught Barlavoni's for a fleeting moment, just long enough for him to give a quick, subtle wink. "Oh, I'll…be around, Mr. Barlavoni. I'll plan to be around for a right long while."

Author's Note: Ooooh, a possible enstranged ally? Or perhaps a smooth-talking angagonist! Only time will tell, but in the meantime, feel free to tell me for yourself in the form of a review! Hooray!


	10. Chapter 10 Nocturne No 2

Author's Note: Aight, I got nothin'. There's no good excuse for why I haven't updated since Thanksgiving. Plain and simply, I've been a lazy nomad, and I'll probably be throw in to a snake pit by Mammon when I die. So, let's just forget about the whole thing and enjoy this chapter.

A hearse passed by the window at 12:00. An ordinary shiny black hearse that she most likely wouldn't have noticed had it passed 48 hours ago...but, like nearly everything even vaguely associated with death that Raven had seen since the previous night, she found herself staring at it; watching it with concerned, half-lidded lavender eyes until it rounded a left in the intersection and disappeared into traffic.

She'd had a dream last night; a _particular_ type of dream she hadn't experienced since Adeline's birth; the type she thought would have died with Wrath, Trigon…and Adeline's father.

A dream with _fire_.

A dream with _pain_…

A dream with _purpose_…

…however…. she had absolutely _no_ idea what that purpose was. Looking back on it, the entire thing had been ambiguous enough to almost be deemed a nightmare…with no hints of meanings, sense _or_ foreshadowing. Just memories…and nothing more.

But…

…Begrudgingly, Raven knew that wasn't the case. She have been freed from her past, but she _was_ still an empathy, and therefore, still susceptible to the occasional not-too-subtle messages of her unconsciousness. Visions. Sometimes…her mind sent her messages that meant absolutely nothing at all…and sometimes, it sent her dreams like _this_ one.

She was standing in a room…a room literally _made_ of flames. They covered the walls; they covered the floor and even covered the ceiling; churning and dancing along each surface in an unstoppable fury, in an outright defiance of gravity. They had felt so real, so unarguably genuine that she'd felt her skin grow brittle, her eyes drying out and her blue hair sizzling like a field of wheat in a firestorm. In the middle of the room, there was a sleek, large table; its metal frame turned a searing white hot and the flames quickly creeping up its sides like greedy pairs of hands, eager to snatch whatever was on top. However…the top of the table was nothing but a gigantic bonfire itself, a pillar of flames that reached all the way to the ceiling.

And over it all…rising over the roar of the flames…there was music playing…an unnamable and yet incredibly familiar tune. It was leisurely, sounding like an early 50s record skipping on a phonograph. There were slow scales circulating on a distant, grand piano, a dozen hazy violins slurring through crescendos accompanied by saxophones, trumpets…and above all, voices; distorted by static and the crackle of flames. Grainy, old-fashioned voices perfectly synchronized…perfectly harmonized all singing in eye-closing harmony as it droned through the fiery hell. Raven had never heard it before, but…it'd been the most familiar thing in the world to her…as if she'd spent her entire life in this room…a burning purgatory of fire, heat…and the song.

Flames began to dribble from the ceilings, leaving a streak of flame in its wake and yielding a temporary aperture in the sea of fire that covered the ceiling before they were once again smothered by flame. In a temporary glimpse, Raven thought she could see tiles…plain, off-white, ceiling tiles; like the kind you'd find in a hospital. Another rift yielded a fluorescent light panel…another revealing a corner mounted television…another; a plain metal speaker…

She was in a surgery room…a blistering, inferno of chemicals, drugs, and sweet rich medicine. She could recognize its shape, the feel, the very smell of it…masked beneath a layer of chortling flames.

And then something moved from atop the table…and suddenly, there was another voice…

_Fire fire everywhere…never fading, always there…flaming passions, dead despair…fire fire everywhere…_

…and then she'd woken up.

That was all she'd been able to remember…and everything she'd been unable to forget. The dream kept repeating, like the show tune you never quite get out of your head. She'd reiterated the dream over and over in her head, trying to make _anything_ out of it. A room full of fire sounded more like something that'd be a reoccurring theme in some of _her_ dreams…but that portion of her life was over; dead, cremated and buried.

Thus…the dream couldn't have been about herself, or Adeline. However…despite the fact that she'd never been in that blazing room before…the whole thing had seemed familiar. The song, the feel…the very atmosphere; all were indirectly recognizable, like one big fiery subluminal message. Out of the entire thing, however, only one thing was for certain.

Something bad is going to happen; happen to somebody close to her, important to her. Somebody…other than little Adeline.

Giving her limited number of acquaintances in France due mostly to a poorly developed sense of their language and a certain capturing of 'The Brain' a while back which had destroyed a good portion of city property just feet away from the base of the Eiffel tower; Raven only had one other person to affiliate with the dream. Only one other…

Cyborg…Victor Stone

…He was in danger…in trouble…in _something._ Something deep enough for her to pick up on from across the ocean.

_Something_…

"Mom…" Something tugged on Raven's sleeve.

She glanced down.

Adeline stared back, holding her arm with one hand and a suitcase nearly her own size in the other. She looked surprisingly composed for a ten-year-old who'd been freshly and forcibly forced out of a warm comfy bed to make an unannounced and unexplained flight across the ocean two whole days earlier than previously planned. She was even more composed than her _mother_. After getting the tickets within 24 hours, packing the rest of their clothes, and neglecting to give the house a good once-over before leaving were just some of the trials Raven had faced in order to leave France within the day. She was probably going to return home and find out that it had burned down as a result of an unattended pan of pasta of the stove.

If her gut instinct had failed her on this one….if all this had been nothing more than flammable nightmare that'd caused her all this grief…

Adeline tugged again at her mother's sleeve, her eyes beckoning to two seats in the Air-Port terminal near two gigantic windows. "Mom, over there! We can see the planes landing!"

Raven slowly rubbed the skin under her eyes with the opposite hand, nodding tiredly and levitating their luggage over to the seats with a nonchalant flick of her hand, an action which derived several raised eyebrows and head-turns from some of the citizens within the terminal...but Raven wasn't even acknowledging them. Right now, she just wanted to get on the stupid plane before she started throwing larger things than suitcases.

Raven moved over to one of the seats and eased herself down onto it like a smarting old woman. She hadn't slept a _wink_ since that dream; and she had a strong feeling that she wasn't going to be getting a good night's rest until this whole damn thing was over.

Adeline plopped herself down on the seat next to her mother's, happily watching the lights of a large airliner come in for a landing against the night-sky outside. Without taking her eyes from the window, she spoke. "Why'd we leave early?"

Raven crossed her legs, absently scrounging around for her paperback. "No reason, Adeline. I just…want to get there earlier."

Adeline separated her gaze from the window for just enough time to give her mother a surprisingly worried, brow-furrowing glimpse. "It's more than that. You've had that look on your face ever since two nights ago."

Finally locating it, Raven pulled out her book; readjusting herself in her seat several times before answering nonchalantly, flipping through pages. "What look, Adeline?"

Adeline, losing interest in the planes, righted herself in her seat, looking at her mother with a look of subtle childish concern. "_That_ look, mommy…the look you get when you have a bad feeling. You've had it for two days now."

Raven sighed, lowering her book to her lap and meeting her daughter's eyes.

_A regular Nancy Drew, this one…_

"Yes, Adeline, mommy did get a bad feeling. It's nothing to get concerned about…" She paused for a moment, glancing out the window. "…It's probably nothing at all."

Adeline wasn't convinced. She tilted her head, glancing down to the floor and feet swinging from under the seat. "Was it about…Uncle Cyborg? Is that why we're leaving early?"

Raven's voice became sharper, her nose once again slinking into her book. "Adeline, it's none of your concern. You wanted to go earlier, didn't you?"

Adeline lowered her gaze timidly, crossing her legs and looking away, shying away from a confrontation. "Not if you have _that_ look. Something bad always happens when you get _that_ look."

Raven sighed as she watched Adeline slowly turn back to the window, curling her legs up to her chest and watching the planes once more. Sighing again she let the book plop down on the chair next to her and slid an arm around Adeline's shoulder, giving her a slow, warm hug. "Look." She whispered. "Uncle Cyborg has always had…well…difficulties after all of us retired from being Titans."

Adeline looked up at her mother, smiling. "You mean super-heroes?"

Raven returned the smile, giving a small amused huff. "Yes…when we were super-heroes. It's just that…Uncle Cyborg never quite got used to it. He…he feels alone, and so he usually _is_ alone. He doesn't remember much about his life before becoming a Titan…so his time as a titan _was_ his life. Now that it's over…I'm not sure he knows what to do. He doesn't have a family anymore…he doesn't have anybody to love."

Adeline let out a quiet yawn, lowering her head onto Raven's lap. "But _you_ love him, right?"

"Of course I do, Adeline, he's like a brother to me."

Adeline blinked and turned her head up to meet her mother's one more time. "Like a brother?" She said, her mind clearly having been set on another relationship status. It took Raven a moment to catch it. Finally upon realizing it she stopped, glancing down and meeting the curious gaze of her daughter.

Adeline stared back almost lucidly, her eyes glinting as if to say _Yeah…I know about it._ Raven shook this off with a half-smile. The relationship that Cyborg and Raven shared went beyond Adeline's understanding. She was, after all, just turning eleven and, like most eleven year old girls with single mothers, always was on the lookout for a new 'father'. It wasn't really that surprising then that Adeline would interoperate Raven and Cyborg's friendship as…well, something _more_. She had always been smitten with romance from the beginning…a trait that _must_ have been inherited from the later side of the gene pool. Her shelves at home were covered wall to wall with picture books and short stories…all about love, relationships…and, of course…a happy ending.

Raven saw no particular problem with this…although she knew from personal experience that the world was full of unhappy endings and unhappy people. Still though…she thought it'd be nice to give Adeline that hope; a hope for the happy ending that her life never quite achieved. Despite the fact that she had a wonderful daughter, her career was taking off, and she was easily attaining enough money to put Adeline through the best of educations...Adeline's father was still dead. Ten years was not nearly enough time to lessen the blatant obviousness of his absence. An entire childhood without a father had taken its toll on both mother and daughter. But no…Adeline _hadn't_ grown up without a father. She'd spent nearly half her life across the ocean in the company of one of the best substitute parental stand-inns Raven could ever hope to find; a man willing to help Raven through those first gauntlet years of motherhood while still respecting who Adeline's father _truly_ had been. To Adeline…Cyborg was the only other family she ever had.

After several awkward moments of silence, Adeline, clearly not in the mood to pursue the matter further, simply shrugged and snuggled down on the chair, her head resting against her mother's thigh. She shifted once, twice, before finally finding a comfortable spot and letting out a quiet, content cat-like sigh. Raven edged off her coat and lowered over Adeline, giving a small, half-smile.

"Sweet dreams…." She sighed, flipping open her book once again. "…and happy endings."

Author's Note: Not a very action packed chapter, I know, but it does give you some important hints and whatnot to what's going to go down in future chapters. This was kinda meant to be a more 'warm and fuzzy' type of chappy, sorta a break between the gore, murder, and mystery! I'll try to update more quickly from now on. Happy Nomadic Holidays, everyone!

-Bert the Nomad


	11. Chapter 11 'A Vuccella

Author's note: Sorry about the wait once again, I was mentally mutilated by writer's cramp. Don't worry though, through proper spiritual yoga, meditation, and a few episodes of Star Trek the Next Generation, I was finally inspired to continue! So here you have it, the next chapter! Make it so!

One Day Later…

"Look, Beast Boy, I can't."

An indignant gasp. "What? Why not?"

"I told you already, it…it just wouldn't feel right. It'd be taking advantage of your hospitality. For God's sake, we haven't even left the hospital!"

Beast Boy tossed his hands up in the air plopping himself down in a seat of the hospital lobby, bewildered by apparent stupidity. "I'm _offering_ here, Cyborg! Someone _blew_ up your apartment! Someone's trying to kill you! Really _kill_ you!"

Cyborg frowned, repeating a repeated phrase for one too many times. "Hey, the authorities said that there was no obvious evidence of a bomb." He paused at Beast Boy's rather unconvinced eyebrow raise. "Look, I had been cooking chicken on the stove before the police showed up; I probably just forgot to turn off the gas.

Beast Boy gave a loud, obvious huff. "Chicken doesn't blow up an entire apartment, Cyborg."

Cyborg sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It wasn't a bomb! They found a body among the ashes; it's believed to be the manager. The guy smoked like a son of a bitch, BB; he must have come in to remind me of something, lit up a cigarette and ignited the gas. Boom, end of story. I was behind on my rent anyways, and he always was coming in to remind me."

Beast Boy squinted at him, leaning in with a hand lucidly placed over his mouth. "_Or,_ it could have been some sort of secret super death explosive attached to the door, designed to explode as soon as _someone_, namely you, entered the apartment and was specifically meant to _look_ like a gas leak, so nobody would suspect a thing! It's the perfect crime! "

Cyborg shook his head, smirking. "Obviously not, Beast boy. I'm still here." He paused to raise a bemused metallic brow. "You're really into this whole 'Super-assassin-game of death' thing aren't you?"

Beast Boy blinked and straightened himself, shrugging. "Well, it does present the opportunity for you to skip out on paying rent to your cremated manager and hanging out at _my_ place for a while."

Cyborg folded his arms. "I already told you, BB, I'd feel bad if I just barged in and loitered around your house for some insurmountable amount of time. I don't need a place to stay!"

Beast Boy laughed at him. "Cyborg, you're home is a crater! All of your _stuff_ was in there! You can't honestly believe that you can recover from losing all your shit just like that. Hell, I'm getting by just fine and I'm still bitching about having to buy myself a new limo!"

Beast Boy's phone rang, ending his chuckle and his smile. He glanced down at it for a second, and sighed. "Look Cyborg," He said, removing it from his pocket, his face becoming serious. "I can't tell you what to do. I just think that if you came to live at my place, you'll just have a place to crash until you're back up on your feet. The choice is yours. In the mean-time," He scrounged around in his pocket again, this time removing his wallet from which he drew several dog-eared wads of cash and pushing it into his palm. "Take this. That will at least help until you find some place."

He turned away, yammering away into the phone. He glanced over his shoulder with a level brow mouthing 'Give me a call if you change your mind', before heading for the doors.

Cyborg huffed glancing through the money in his hands.

Five hundred dollars, peachy.

It wasn't a surprise that Beast Boy, more specifically a Beast Boy with _money_, would have trouble understanding just how deep the shit-pile was that Cyborg had been sinking continually into for the past ten years. At least he was trying to help…and truly, his offer was literally the only option Cyborg had left. His entire home was gone. And why? Cyborg was sure he'd turned that stove off before heading down to the police station, in fact he was _positive_. He was also strictly positive that his internal sensors would have picked up on a gas leak in seconds.

Jesus. Was is possible that someone was trying to kill him? Was his luck really _that_ bad?

Was it possible to be dragged into a police murder investigation, have your apartment reduced to ground-zero and your manager a charcoaled skeleton just one day before a long lost friend returns from overseas all in one day?

God knows what Raven would think should she come over and see that he was nothing more than a suspect in a police murder investigation bumming off his rich, successful friend with some potential band of super apartment-exploding assassins hot on his trail.

He was free to leave the hospital at any time, his injuries being nothing but a couple of scraps and a single internal wiring frame coming loose in the left side of his head. Beast Boy was relatively unscathed along with Hex, who was still jittery, and Dunbar, who was now reading his book in the waiting room.

Between Beast Boy's innumerable phone calls to practically every suit-wearing goony that worked for him, he somehow managed to get another visit from a strangely upset looking Barlavoni, a string of photo-flashing news crews, and even Hex's mother who left a basket of cookies and a couple of hugs for each of them.

Cyborg received just one phone call, and that was from his Mr. Harris to tell him that the incident was not grounds for him to skip out on work. He was granted two days to get back on his feet before coming back to the office. That basically meant that Cyborg had two days to find a new home.

He'd take Beast Boy's offer, he had no other choice. Right now, though, he just needed time to think. Walk around, shake off this whole thing as best he could.

Dunbar, still reading his book from the a guest room seat, slowly consulted his watch and tapped it leisurely with his white-gloved hand, telling Beast Boy with bored eyes that it was time to go. Beast Boy nodded and snapped shut his phone. "Don't be afraid to call." Beast Boy said, pushing open the doors to the hospital, quickly flanked by Hex and Dunbar.

Hex pushed his glasses up on is nose and waved at him, pushing himself up on his tip-toes to catch one last glimpse of him over Dunbar's shoulder. "I hope it all works out for you, Mr. Victor Stone, sir! I'd still like to get to know you better!"

Although Dunbar's back was turned, Cyborg could have sworn he heard the old limo driver mutter "Queer…" under his breath as he shuffled to the door, pushing the wide-eyed blonde assistant out with him.

Cyborg watched as Beast Boy stepped into a waiting limo parked outside, sighing lowly to himself. Beast Boy gave him a smirk and a salute from inside the tinted limo window before the tires screeched and the vehicle went careening down the street, out of sight.

Cyborg, who luckily was still wearing a large baggy sweatshirt and cargo pants, pocketed the money and exited the hospital, stepping leisurely down to stone steps and onto the sidewalk, slowly raising the hood to his sweatshirt.

It was morning, but just barely. The rain had stopped and the sun was finally making its way through the clouds and reflecting off the shiny backsides of the large buildings of uptown Jump City. It was the city exactly the way it should be; sunny, noisy, and secure. Cyborg's hands migrated their way into his pockets, his head slowly lowering to the curb, not meeting anybody's eyes but the occasional dog that was came to sniff once or twice at his heels before being yanked way by their owner. What he needed was a nice place to sit down and eat; and that five hundred dollars bouncing around in his back pocket was giving him a pretty fair choice in terms of selection.

He eyed several sit-down restaurants…but those were usually best fitted for when you have somebody to sit down _with_. Besides, he never really liked large atmosphere restaurants anyway; too open, too non-private. A crowded booth in a small, one window café where you can smell what the guy sitting in back of you is eating was always more preferable to him than a gigantic, white garnished, table with more silverware than food. Maybe it was because of his new, adopted life-style, but Cyborg had always distinctly recalled favoring the Pizzeria at the three way intersection where his friends always used to go to and fight over the last slice. God he loved that old place, with its quiet outside eating space, its round fiberglass tables with the gigantic umbrellas coming up out of the middle, the deep-dish, four-cheese pizzas with the…

Cyborg stopped for a moment, deciding with a bemused smirk where he'd like to eat.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

"What'll it be, hon?"

Cyborg glanced up from his table, with a deep nostalgic smile. The waitress, a stocky forty-something year old woman, returned the gaze over shiny black spectacles, absently chewing a gigantic wad of gum and tapping her pen on her notepad. On her frilly pink dress was a nametag simply titling 'IRMA' which seemed to fit in well with her towering beehive haircut, her shiny high heels and white apron.

She blew a gigantic bubble and shifted her weight from one leg to the other, giving Cyborg a good once over. "Have we met somewhere before?" She asked in a thick Brooklyn accent, trying to better see Cyborg's face from under his sweatshirt's hood. Cyborg grinned and lowered his head, to inspect the menu. They'd met all right. Irma had been the waitress of choice for the titans every time they came down to the pizzeria. For five years she'd been taking their orders, so much so that she was able to memorize each of the titan's preferences so their order was nothing more than Robin saying the 'usual', consisting pepperoni and green peppers for Robin, Normal cheese loaded with mustard for Starfire, a specialized tofu blend for Beast Boy, one slice of shallow crust cheese for Raven, and an extra large sausage, chicken and mushrooms deep-dish for himself. God, those were the days. At least this place hadn't changed since he last left it. It was still that name-less pizza restaurant he remembered, with all the heart-stopping menu selections and honest prices.

He lowered the menu after a second, scooting back in his chair. "I'll have the usual, Irma."

Irma blew another bubble and raised an eyebrow. "The usual, sugah? Mind tellin' me what that is?"

Cyborg bit his lip, realizing that it'd been nearly ten years since he'd placed an order here with his team. Idiot, how could she remember after ten years? He was lucky she even saw him as familiar looking.

He cleared his throat, hiding his face in the menu with a tight jaw and slight blush. "Uh, I mean a deep dish sausage, chicken, and mushroom….extra large...please."

The pen scribbled the order down. "Sometin' to drink?"

"Some sort of soda, I don't really care what."

Irma raised a drawn-on eyebrow and scribbled something else down.

"That all?"

Cyborg silently nodded, still embarrassed. Irma acknowledged this with another bubble. "Won't be a moment, sugah." She said, turning and strolling towards the building, her heels audibly clicking as she went.

Cyborg huffed, shaking his head. Okay, so maybe _some_ things had changed around this place. He just hoped that the food was the same.

He had nabbed the same table the team always used to get; he was sitting in the same seat he always used to sit in, and now he was ordering the same dish he always used to get. Everything was the same…except for the empty seats. Cyborg slowly bit his tongue as his eyes slowly traveled from one chair to the next.

This place sure brought back memories all right. Although…they weren't the particularly fuzzy warm ones he was hoping for. This table…this restaurant…this whole damn atmosphere was just making more blatantly obvious that his 'wistfulness trip 101' wasn't even worth his time. He sighed again, resting his head in his palms and thrumming his fingers on the table.

"Waste of time…" He muttered, eyeing a large group of teenagers chatting absently at the adjacent table.

There was a sudden presence behind him, and before he could even turn around, there was somebody sitting next to him; an odd and familiar smell of sweet cotton candy already beginning to scramble his nostalgia senses a lot more successfully than the trip to this restaurant.

"Well, well, well…" A sultry voice whispered. "I would have never of thought to run into the likes of you after all these years…"

Cyborg's head snapped up so quickly he nearly went out of his seat, over the railing, and into rush hour traffic. He caught himself at the last moment, bringing himself back to the table with both eyes bulging at the girl sitting next to him.

She was smiling at him, almost flirtatiously; her blinks long and slow, her chin placed daintily in her hands, legs crossed underneath the table as if she'd been sitting there all day waiting for him.

"Jinx?" Cyborg asked stupidly.

The girl gave another slow blink and a giggle. "I'm glad you still remember me. I was worried for a second."

Cyborg finally managed to settle in his seat once again, giving him time to look the cat-like girl over with raised brows. She looked nearly exactly the same as when he first saw her…only…she'd gotten thinner, but not in a good way. Her cheek-bones had slowly migrated inwards like dents in a beer can, her ever present blush washed out ever so slightly. Her arms weren't much thicker than a child's, her legs looked knobby and straight; still swathed in the striped tights like two off colored candy canes leading into her strangely large shoes. Still though, she was distinctly attractive; her hair still curving up into their mischievous horns of burning pink and cat-like eyes still alive and sleek as ever. They seemed to see right through him with an almost jaded ease but…distantly there hung a fond bemused interest.

"This is a strange sight." She said, turning her head horizontally in her hands. "A teen titan sitting alone at a pizzeria? That's almost unheard of even if it's been one hundred years since your little team's been together."

Biting his jaw, Cyborg managed to compose himself enough to answer. "I'm not a titan anymore, and it's only been _ten_ years." He looked her over shaking his head. "What are you doing here?"

Jinx made a face. "I _do_ live in this city too, believe it or not." She raised her head, her eyes almost sleepy. "I just noticed you sitting over here all by your lonesome and wanted to come and say hello for old times sake. You haven't come here for quite some time."

Cyborg shook his head again, still trying to get over the initial shock. He was not particularly a tight friend with Jinx…but still, she _had_ once been at some point in time an acquaintance, a nemesis, and…a potential love interest. That in and of itself was at least worth a conversation for old times sake. No matter how awkward it would be.

But first…he had to come up with something to say…

"Well…I've just been busy. I don't usually have time to eat out. Too much work."

_More like a cheap budget, a deflated paycheck, and a smarting ego…_

Jinx blinked again lazily, almost as if she were on the verge of nodding off. "You working now?"

Cyborg huffed, crossing his legs. "Technically…" Then, smiling, he added "To tell you the truth, though, I really hate my job. It just pays the bills."

Jinx smiled as well, her hands still placed loosely in her palms. Cyborg bobbed his head in her direction. "And you? How have you been doing?"

Something fell slightly in Jinx's face as she leaned back in her seat, her eyes falling to the table, then out to the street. "I…well.." She paused, fixing her hair almost shamefully.

The sun broke through the clouds for a brief moment, illuminating the small flaring rings of red skin underneath her nostrils, a vague glassy sheen over her eyes, a slight tremble in her hands. He could see that her clothes had been tussled…and by innumerable groping hands and not neglected trip to the dry-cleaners. The collar to her shirt had been stretched to twice its original size and slipped down her left shoulder, revealing a bright red, frilly bra strap.

Jinx noticed this and pulled her collar back up, blushing. "I…I have a thing in the red light district." She grinned weakly at him, tilting her head. "It pays the bills."

Cyborg found himself wordless again.

Jinx? The spry, crafty and super-powered enchantress who had been part of the H.I.V.E five _and_ an honorary titan was now a prostitute? It seemed like something out of a bad romance novel. Where had that pride gone? What had the world done to her?

"Jinx…" Cyborg said slowly.

She didn't answer; she was looking away, eyes half-lidded, her foot kicking around an imaginary stone. "Things didn't really work out for me, Cyborg. I'll just leave it at that." She said lowly.

"But…what about Kid-Flash? Isn't he-"

Her face darkened, but with hurt instead of anger. Cyborg could tell she was recalling memories…bad ones. "He _was_…for some time. He was with me long enough for me to sacrifice everything for him…because I thought he understood me. I did everything I could but…it appears that I just wasn't right for him. I thought that our relationship was something more…and he didn't." She glanced up at him. "Has that…has _anything_ like that ever happened to you?"

_Her blue cloak, her lavender eyes, her soft glowing skin…_

"Uh, no." Cyborg said quickly. "Can't say anything has."

Jinx smiled, closing her eyes. "Then consider yourself lucky. You just can't assume in relationships. You can't leave anything to the imagination. It always, _always_ ends badly."

_Her peculiar warm smile, her light blushing giggle…her laughing young daughter…her dead, murdered lover…_

Cyborg glanced down, a sick and dull feeling beginning to build up in his throat. Why was this reminding him of Raven? He wasn't assuming _anything _about_ nothing_! He didn't even _have_ anything to begin with!

…right?

A large glass of root-beer clattered onto the table in front of him, ice cubes rattling against the sides.

"The pizza will be here in a moment, sugah." Irma said casually. "'Bout five minutes o'kay?"

Cyborg nodded dumbly. "Yes…Thanks."

Irma grinned and was just about to head back towards other waiting tables when suddenly she noticed the petite grey skinned girl sitting shyly at the table. Irma noted this with a very cold, discontented eyebrow bob and turned back to face her.

"Are you actually going to buy something this time?" She huffed, her beehive hair-cut swaying from side to side. "Or are you simply trying to seduce one of my customers for pocket change?"

Cyborg braced himself, half-expecting to have to hold Jinx back from leaping up on the table and cleaving the chunky waitress in half. What the hell was Irma doing acting like this? Didn't she know just who she was insulting? Surprisingly though, the enchantress simply bowed her head like a shamed puppy. "He's an old friend. I just wanted to talk to him…"

Irma clicked her tongue. "Well leave him alone. He looks like he's been stressed enough as it is. The last thing he needs is for a lustful little whore to try and sucker him out of his hard earned money. Scram!"

Again Cyborg found himself bracing for a vengeful Jinx to reduce the wise-cracking Irma to her bare components in a fit of fiery hexes. Again, however, Jinx just bowed her head with a tired, defeated sigh. The prideful, proud, and overconfident air that had been her defining attitude trait throughout her entire life in the H.I.V.E was completely gone. She was…quite literally…a different person.

"I'm…sorry." Was all she said, pushing herself up from her seat.

Cyborg stood up first, his voice surprisingly taught. "It's okay. I insist."

Irma stuck her hip out, tapping her foot repeatedly and staring at Jinx with obvious venom that had tried to poison the poor pink girl before. "Just watch your back around that one, sugah. She's just wants her buck for her bang."

Cyborg furrowed his brow as Irma turned and headed back, her fat fanny swaying under her pleated skirt. He had been wrong. Irma _had_ changed. She'd changed as much as Jinx had. He turned back to the table, and, to his further surprise, found that Jinx had a sleeve to her nose, her shoulders hunched forwards.

Jesus, she was _crying_!

Cyborg turned his full attention to her. "Jinx…what's-"

"It's okay, Cy. She's…she's right. That's the only reason I come here anymore." She paused and buried her face in her hands. "It's the only way I can even _find_ anybody anymore. I hardly getting by even as a whore!" She paused for a moment, then jerked her head up, snatching Cyborg's hand. "Oh please don't think that's why I wanted to talk to _you_, though! I really wanted to meet you again! I really did! I…it's just that…"

She stopped again, her breaths catching in her chest like a skipping record. Cyborg…once again…could only stare helplessly back at her, words just simply failing to come up.

_Some help you're being right now, the girl's crying for Pete's sake_

Jinx finally managed to get a hold of herself long enough to stand up slowly from the table. "I'm…sorry." She said. "I really am sorry, Cyborg. I've made this all _really_ awkward. It's sorta rude of me to barge in on you and bitch about my shitty life, huh?"

Cyborg finally swallowed hard and shrugged. "Look, Jinx, if you-"

Jinx raised both her hands to stop him. "No, no, don't try to help me. If you let the world mount you, you end up its bitch for life, and believe me, I'm beyond saving. Just promise you won't…you know…end up like me."

There was a pause that lasted a good thirty seconds longer than it should have, both former heroes simply staring at each other. Then…finally, Jinx smiled and stood up, pushing the chair back into place. "I...should be going now. It's been really nice talking to you again, it really has."

Cyborg opened his mouth to say something, then, with a deep sigh, shut it again. Poor Jinx…poor, poor Jinx. She obviously had her mind set on leaving and nothing that his good-for-nothing comforting skills could do about it. Feeling a sudden peculiar pang of guilt in his side, he reached into his back pocket for the money Beast Boy had given him.

"Jinx, wait, let me at least give you something to-"

Jinx smiled at him, and for a moment, regained that cat-like look of confidence once again. "No need, cowboy." She said, removing a very familiar roll of bills from her own pocket. Cyborg blinked at it for a second, then began scrounging around in his back pocket once again with renewed vigor.

Of course…the money wasn't there.

Still smiling, Jinx removed over half the dollars and tossed the rest back to Cyborg. "I guess I still do enjoy the occasional pick-pocketing however. Call it force of habit."

Cyborg shook his head, too bemused to try to take his money back. "I guess you haven't changed so much after all, have you."

She shrugged and pocketed freshly attained bills. "You know, I almost was tempted to try the same thing when I saw you coming out of that antique shop downtown yesterday. Looked like you'd bought something pretty big."

Cyborg's smile faded, his brow furrowing.

"What?"

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

The camera focused on the two figures at the table. The lens shifted from one to the other for a moment, zooming in on their inaudible conversation. It took it's time, the camera buzzing as the frame kept on zooming in and out between the two of them. Finally, an ideal location was reached.

The camera flashed.

And then, it flashed again.

Ending Author's Note: Yep, an old friend, an awkward moment, a new devilish photographer! If this doesn't help add intrigue it looks like I'd better dawn my Starfleet uniform and start memorizing random Captain Picard quotes until inspiration rears it's ugly head. Until next time!


	12. Chapter 12 Requiem 1st Movement

Author's Note: Yeah, a tad gruesome this one may be…but it DOES add insight and details that will come in handy later one. Enjoy!

_Born from fire and endless thunder lives a boy of song and slumber. He's doomed to remain just one in number…but he's always dreaming and is apt to wonder. _

The book was a children's book. The original type of children's book. The kind so old that it told stories instead of jokes. So old that you could only identify it by the hand-drawn illustrations, those dusty inked pictures that stretched across the pages, their images hazed through years of service. The book's original hard cover had been worn to the consistency of leather, and the pages had slowly dropped in hue several shades. Still though, the words remained stark, refusing to disappear…set on telling their story over and over again until they were nothing but dust. That was their purpose. That's why they existed.

The hands that held it respected this, and held the worn pages with as much patience and gentleness as one would hold a child.

_With internal consent, the boy felt content to sit and to dream as the years came and went. For nearly ten years he dragged out this endeavor, but as you can see and surely agree, it couldn't all last forever. _ _One day though, inevitably so, the boy up and went wondering. Why he did go, I won't say I know, but he still remained dreaming and pondering. _

The hands flipped the page, but not before they gently flipped the book around to give the girl in the chair across from it a good view of the pictures. Normally it would have been polite to let the girl hold the book for herself to get a better look at the pictures, for, as everyone knows, you can't tell a story without pictures. The duct tape around her wrists and ankles prevented her from doing so, thus the hands saw it fit to do it all for her. The girl head bobbed from side to side, a nasty welt swelling her left eye like a lemon and allowing only her left eye to gaze back, glinting wildly. Her black eye-shadow cascaded down either cheeks, melted away by tears and sweat.

Next to her, on the table, was a pair of shiny blue scissors. It had spent the better part of the hour getting her hair perfect, and though she'd jumped around quite a bit…it had turned out _exactly_ as it should have been. To celebrate…it was reading its favorite book. It was a celebration for both of them. A happy ending.

She grunted, the stretched red flesh of her wrists wriggling against their bonds, the skin rubbed raw and red, like uncooked hamburger. Her single eye remained trained to its own, soft, muffled pleads bobbing in her throat.

The book bobbed in front of her, the smile behind it faltering. She wasn't even _looking_ at the pictures!

The hands prodded the book against her stomach, a soft prompting grunt coming from behind it. Again the girl did nothing, her head simply rocking from side to side like a broken bobble-head, shiny from sweat and mucous.

Another hard poke, another sob.

The left hand tensed for a moment, a thin trembling vein rising slowly along the knuckle like a twisting winding river. The girl recognized this and began sobbing harder, her bare toes clenching and unclenching in fear. Slowly though, the vein disappeared and the book spun back towards the reader with an indignant huff…then flipped the page.

The next page had pop-up pictures. This was responded to with a giggle and clapping, the previous mood completely forgotten. The reader's feet stomped the ground gleefully, rumbling the walls and sending the slightest trail of dust down from the ceiling win a quiet, hissing waterfall of dust. The eager bulky hands quickly hounded out the words, tracing along the line with a trembling index finger.

_The boy simply walked in the realm of his dreams, a world held together by widening seams. His life had been taken by a sudden new mission, and he'd only return home under one condition. If a family was existed, a mother, or brother he vowed to find them one way or another _

More dust fell from the ceiling as the feet rattled the floor once again. It knew how the story ended, it'd read the story hundreds of times. Thousands of times. Every feature of it; the contours of the pictures, the hues of the faces, the spelling mistake on the fourth page….all had been memorized.

Everything…except the last page.

It had read the story more times than it could count…but never once had it read the last page. If it did that…the mystery would be gone. It had been tempted many times…but somehow, it's always managed to steady its hand before even opening the cover. It'd read the last page when the time was right. Until then…

It offered the pictures again, and again was responded by more throaty moans and shifts. It sighed impatiently, huffing through its nostrils. The girl continued sniffling, her head away.

If the hands hadn't worked so hard on the blue cloak the girl was wearing right now, they might have hit her. Not hard, it couldn't _afford_ to hit her hard, or she'd end up just like the previous one. Hitting wasn't something it enjoyed, but something it had deemed necessary. Hitting made them _scared_. Hitting made them _listen_. However, one too many hits would result in disappointment and lots of wasted hard work. It couldn't afford that. Not at all. It'd wait with this one. It'd be patient with this Raven.

It leaned back in its chair and flipped the page.

_Days turned to months and the weather got hot, and though he kept walking the boy secretly thought just whether his journey was worth it or not. He'd rather be sleeping, he like that a lot, but the pondering wondering thought of another born in a storm of fire and thunder kept his mind twisted and tight as knot, never relaxing and eternally taught._

It squealed at the next page, feet rattling the floor again. It was so interested in the book that it didn't notice that the duct tape binding the girl's left hand had come loose. Just loose enough, through endless hours of wrenching and struggling, for her to squeeze her hand through. It had only yielded up less than a centimeter of space, but that was enough for someone desperate enough. The girl's eyes were wide, teeth squeezed together so hard her gums had drained of color, her sweaty raw knuckles wriggling to get free with a wide-eyed fervor, the fingers of her hand forced together like a pursed sock-puppet. She watched her progress avidly, wildly, stopping only to writhe away from the prodding book and the hazy, red-tinted smile coming from beyond it. The girl's hand trembled with effort, the pain completely overpowered by the adrenaline rush of being free. The reader took no notice, too absorbed with the story.

The page flipped.

_The boy wondered away the years of his youth, his hair became tangled, his manner uncouth. His reveries became nightmares, his world became dark. He had wasted life in the pursuit of a lark! He realized this with anger and screams, damning the world that had ruined his dreams. 'Why should I live if I'm left all alone? Can't I have family to call all my own? One with whom loneliness has been all they've known? A wondering wonderer with whom I can atone?' The boy sank to his knees, bellowing, screaming. 'Why have me exist if you give me no meaning? Damn you, that you've refused me a brother, but I'll find rest one way or another!, I'll find me purpose if it takes my last breath, for living without purpose is a fate worse than death!' _

The girl's knuckle to her pinky finger gave a withering _snap_ against the tape, like a tree-branch breaking underwater. She grunted in pain but never stopped pulling, unable to stop even if she tried. Another inch slipped out from under the tape…then another. She bit her tongue till it bled, her whole arm trembling as her gaze ran from the scissors to her hand just mere inches away from being free. The red tinted teeth widened at the illustration, taking a very long time to look over it, the feet never ceasing from pounding the floor. It didn't notice as the girl's small jerking arm motions slowly turned to visible yanks, then finally to full body wrenches. It eagerly flipped, forgetting all about giving the girl a chance to admire the illustrations.

With one final wrenching pull which was immediately followed by a victorious screech, the girl's arm was pulled free. The pair of eyes slowly glanced up from the other side of the book, one expressionless, the other one genuinely surprised. In less than a moment, the girl's hand was fumbling against the table, her broken fingers snatching the scissors up in an instant. Her face wild with a hysterical ferocity, she swung the scissors across in a full arc, blade down, swiping it across the book and burying it into the juncture of the reader's neck. It felt like rubber going in, but somehow the girl managed enough momentum to stick it right up to the handle where it finally struck against something hard. The reader could only stare back, both eyes wide…not contemplating quite what had happened. The girl…suddenly realizing what she had done, stopped as well, returning the gaze with a glinting, smeared gape. She was breathing heavily, completely worn out…but somehow, she managed enough energy to smile.

Then to laugh.

It started out breathy, almost inaudible, but as the reader's gaze slowly fell from hers and to the handle of the scissors protruding from its neck, her laugh grew louder, braver. She didn't even bother loosing her other bonds, she was too busy laughing. Laughing at the fact that she had _won_. She had beaten _it_! She wanted to savor this moment. Enjoy it at least for a little while…and nothing would stop her. Her laugh became louder, turning into a wet, thick chortle before finally exploding into heaving, mucous-rattling guffaws, her remaining arm slapping her thigh.

That's when the scissors clattered to the floor.

The girl's breath caught in her chest as if she'd just inhaled a peanut. Her eyes slowly slipped down to the glinting clean blade of the scissors that lay on the floor, then traced them to the reader's feet, slowly raising them up its body until she met its eyes. Eyes that _should_ have been dead…_should_ have been glazed over and lifeless…but were instead replaced with a gleam that she'd never seen before. A gleam so terrifying that she couldn't even change her expression. She was smiling, petrified at the non-bleeding wound, the insane gleam in the mismatching eyes, the glint of the red-tinted teeth through the lion-like snarl.

She continued smiling even as the fist flew up and connected with her jaw, buckling it like a wish-bone. The skin of her jaw stretched and tore as easily as cooked pasta, leaving a gruesome streak of scarlet in the fist's wake. The girl's head snapped to the side a full one-hundred and eighty degrees with a hallow, juicy crunch of severed muscle and pulverized bone. Her chin finally came to rest between the shoulder blades of her back, rolling from side to side as if it were connected to her body by nothing more than the rubbery, loose skin of her neck. Her wide eyes now stared at the back wall somehow blinking twice more before her pupils slowly began to dilate and a pencil-thin line of blood slipped from the corner of her mouth and trickled down her chin and back. Her body twitched once, twice, then relaxed, her arm slipping over the edge of the seat and swinging back and forth like a lazy pendulum.

The reader slowly stood up, staring blankly at the girl in the chair, then, it slowly gazed over to its hand, stained red like a crimson surgeon's glove. It blinked, tilted its head, and blinked again.

Not again….please not again.

"Ra-ven?"

This one had been so perfect…please don't let it of happened again…

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

"Jesus jumped up _Christ_, Garfield you're brilliant!"

Beast Boy noted his boss with a bored smirk, maneuvering through the congratulating back-stage workers and back slapping stage hands. Apparently, the denizens of the _Garfield Logan Show_ had unexpectedly, though not surprisingly, thrown him a little celebratory party on his safe return from the hospital. There was a cake, a couple balloons, two or three female employees with the first couple buttons of their blouses undone, and even his boss, Thomas Jameson sporting a smile.

Hex was shifting between partygoers…a little resentful about being blatantly ignored. Dunbar was being ignored as well, but he didn't really care. He was reading his book.

"What can I say Tom," Beast Boy shrugged winking at a female stagehand and easing himself back onto a table. "I guess I'm a victim of circumstance."

Jameson clapped his hands. "A circumstance which has stirred up to see whether or not you're okay! We've had phone-calls up the wazoo, Garfield! The viewing to your next show will be doubled what it has been!"

Beast Boy crossed his legs, laughing and grinning. "And what about Mrs. Kinsley? Didn't you call ol' Hex yesterday about her threats to walk of the show or something like that?"

Tom Jameson drew his head back in a 'why-the-hell-you-still-thinking-'bout-that?' look that accentuated his double chin and carelessly pleased attitude. "Kinsley? Kinsley? Oh Come on, Garfield, we don't even need to consider her anymore! This incident is going to skyrocket you to a whole new level of celebrity selection! We might even get some politicians onto the show! Think of it!"

Sipping from his favorite mug, Beast Boy made an unhappy flat-browed face. "No thanks. Politicians are no good unless they're eccentric or unique. The moment you find one, I'll consider it."

Jameson simply shrugged, letting his position as boss and the authoritative manner that an authoritative figure usually had over his workers slide into a sense of stasis…if only for this one event. As soon as the congratulations were over, they were back to antler-butting moose. However, some topics were too important to let slip. Jameson loosened his collar and leaned in, his voice still maintaining a pleasant tone with such a fragile frame that the wrong word from Beast Boy could very quickly darken it. He whispered. "So…you _are_ well enough to do a show, right? You're not hurt or sick or tired, are yah?"

Beast Boy waved a hand over his shoulder with an eye-closed smirk. "Oh yeah, don't worry Tom. And just so you all know, my friend is fine too."

A pause that slowly silenced the whole room.

"You mean Hex?" Jameson finally suggested, brow furrowed.

Beast Boy huffed in return. "Oh hell no, I don't give a damn about him. I'm talking about Victor Stone! He saved my life. Don't tell me you guys don't remember Victor Stone!"

Another slow, lip biting silence.

Beast Boy slowly stood up. Jesus…they _really_ don't remember Cyborg! But how? The guy had saved the city just as many times as he had…with the exception of two or three. Still though, can ten years truly dim the image of a hero? Recognize the deeds and shrug off the man? Wow…heroes really did get the raw end of the deal after the cape is hung up…thank God he had been smart enough to sell it on discount price and had invests with the money. He'd used his fire to get to where he was now. Survival of the fittest, baby.

He shrugged, snatching a passing Hex around the collar and drawing him into a good, natured headlock. "Aw, it's not important, besides, my trust-worthy assistant made it through and that's all that matters!"

Hex gave a surprised, embarrassed yelp as his boss gave him a joking noogie before releasing him stumbling backwards into a desk; his glasses crooked and face at least to shades redder. This was followed by a round of slightly less than good-natured laughing at Hex's expense and the uplifted mood of the room returned.

Hex, frowning so hard he could have been pouting, stepped forward, straightening his glasses with a shaky, embarrassed hand. "As much as I'm glad that you're enthused about my wellbeing, Mr. Logan, I actually came over to tell you that someone's gotten hold of your cell phone number and has left you a call."

Beast Boy snagged a handful of trail mix from a bowl, his wise-ass smile back on his face. "So what? A lot of people have my cell-phone number."

Hex, still flustered, leaned in. "Your _other_ cell-phone number, Mr. Logan, your private one."

Although this comment turned several heads in the audience, the majority of the room's population had luckily turned back to conversation and snacks. Beast Boy's smile faded as Hex handed him his phone. He flipped it open, turning his back to Hex with a seedy glare as he glanced down at the screen.

1 UNREAD TEXT MESSAGE

Glancing over at Hex once again to make sure he wasn't peeking, Beast Boy opened it.

CALL ME BACK AS SOON AS YOU GET THIS MESSAGE. 1-207-324-765

-RAVEN

P.S. THAT MEANS NOW!!!

Beast Boy blinked, read the message several times over, then slowly shut his phone.

"Hex?"

"Yes, Mr. Logan?"

"Gonna need a favor. A really _big_ one."

Ending Author's Note: Just so you know, I made up that whole children's poem. It's not my best, but it rhymed! Hooray! Sorry once again for not updating sooner and I hope that you're liking the story. Any questions, just leave a review. Thanks again everybody! Disturbed


	13. Chapter 13 Rhapsody in Blue

Author's Note: Aaaah! Over a month and no updating! GODS FLOG ME! promptly gets flogged by Zeus Well, now that _that's_ over with I guess I'd like to present the next chapter. It's longer, but provides good insight to the intrigue and good bits of foreshadowing!

By 4:00 p.m., Police Chief Barlavoni had finally concluded that Jeremiah Hobbs was a ghost. Quite simply, he didn't exist. There were no files on him, no mentions of him in reports, and most definitely no pictures anywhere on the entire world wide web. He didn't exist. He was a ghost. A complete and nonexistent ghost.

Barlavoni had told himself that he shouldn't be surprised by this. After all, the pale Southern schmuck had introduced himself as a _Special_ Agent of the FBI. Special Agents were practically mercenaries. The FBI had as much control over their Special Agents as he did with the Teen Titans. On one side, the rules were followed, the tactics were by the book, and the consequences were suffered. That was the FBI…and Barlavoni's police forces. On the _other_ side the rules were nothing but loose guidelines, the tactics were radical risks, and the consequences were meaningless back-stories. Those were the Special Agents…and the Teen Titans…_and_ Jeremiah Hobbs. It was a mutual almost resentful cooperation…but cooperation nonetheless.

Barlavoni had to admit, though, Jeremiah Hobbs _did_ know his stuff. The Police Chief could always identify a guy with smarts and Jeremiah Hobbs had definitely registered a 'ten' on his smarts-o-meter.

But there was more too it than that.

Jeremiah Hobbs _was_ smart…but it was…_that_ type of smart. The smug type of smart. The _dangerous_ type of smart. People with that _type_ of smart didn't bother with explanations or second guesses. They did _what_ they had to do _when_ they had to do it…and all with that damnable little flourish of confidence that prevented anyone from questioning them. Special Agents all were like this…and so were the Titans.

A guy with the smarts though, even the dangerous smarts, wasn't necessarily a bad thing though. Quite honestly Barlavoni admired someone who was willing to put foot-to-ass when the time was right and skip the bull-shit of protocol and rules. However, a dog who's never felt the pull of a leash before would not be the type who'd stoop to teaming up with a domesticated mutt like himself. In other words… why the hell would this Jeremiah character even bother hooking ends with the local police when he'd most likely be twice as content hoarding the case to himself?

As Hamlet would've put it…'something was rotten in the state of Denmark'. Jeremiah Hobbs was just too much of a loose end. _That's_ why Barlavoni hadn't called the number on the little white card sitting at the corner of his desk. That's _also_ why he'd spent four hours at his computer trying to scrounge up something in the data banks about this Jeremiah Hobbs. He'd expired two packs of cigars and, more importantly, a full bottle of bourbon. Although more than a handful of officers found this doubtful, Barlavoni claimed that alcohol had a complete reverse effect on his thought process than it normally did on most other people. Instead of intoxication and drunkenness, one or two cold shots of whiskey cleaned Barlavoni's slate like inebriating wind-shield wipers on a snowy day. However, they could only help if there was something to be found. In this case, there wasn't. Not a single god-damned thing on every single internet site in the world. Jeremiah Hobbs…was a ghost.

The door to his office opened. A senior officer came in, sporting a horse-shoe shaped mustache and a casually tussled uniform smelling of decaffeinated coffee and gun-powder. He held two steaming cups in either hand and a rather bored expression. He glanced around the room with a fuzzy, raised brow.

"Lights turned off, all the blinds shut, and two empty bottles to set the mood. Gee, chief if I didn't know any better, chief, I'd say that you've been visiting some of those kinky sites me and the boys told you about. Correct me if I'm wrong though, isn't it protocol to ogle porn at home and not the office?"

Barlavoni didn't even bother looking at him. Although his tone remained completely dead-pan, he actually couldn't have been happier to be interrupted. "Did you come in here to bitch about my love life, George, or do you have something valuable to say?"

The police officer huffed and sauntered into the room, looking bemusedly over the Police Chief's chair at the screen which, as soon as he noted it was _not_ in fact clustered with naked pictures, sighed and straightened his tie. "I got a new scoop on the bombing at the apartment on Baker Street. The one in a certain Mr. Stone's room."

Barlavoni glanced over at him, taking the coffee cup and taking a low, noisy sip. "Bombing? Are you meaning to say that-"

"Yessir, it's a bombing alright. A pretty damn big one at that. The boys in the lab are still trying to make heads and tails of it all but we suspect it was some sort of trigger mechanism rigged to the door. It isn't C4s, though. It's something way more creative than that. We're thinking something more like nitro-glycerin."

Barlavoni took another sip, longer this time. "Christ." He muttered. "Do we have any surveillance of who's been in that room before we picked up Stone?"

The policeman shook his head, pulling out another chair. "Nope." He said, seating himself. "That apartment building is an older one. They're too cheap for cameras. And nobody says they remember anyone suspicious entering or exiting that building all that day." He paused, thinking. "How's that Victor Stone character doing anyway? Heard he got sent to the hospital."

Barlavoni shrugged. "They guy's a tank, he's completely alright. They got him released earlier today."

A silence.

"You still don't think he has anything to do with all this?"

Barlavoni took a confirming sharp sip. He didn't like it when officers acted as stand-ins for his conscience. "I know he doesn't have anything to do with this. Murder isn't his thing. He practically thinks he's still a Titan."

The officer sighed in a 'well-I-didn't-want-it-to-come-to-this' type way and scrounged out something in his pocket. "Well, earlier on today we stumbled across another body in the city. We identified it as a Mr. Wally P. Griffin. He ran _Griffin's Pawn Shop_ in the downtown district. Cute little antique store, though it's not really my thing, y'know."

Barlavoni spun in his seat to face him, coffee still in hand. "And?"

"Well, there's a relevant missing-person report to go along with that. One for Lauren Callihan, age 15. She worked at Mr. Griffin's place before disappearing yesterday afternoon. We found no trace of her at the building but we did find the eh, _remains_ of Mr. Griffin. These are the initial photographs of the crime-scene. We believe the assailant came at him from behind and…well…have a look."

A handful of photographs fell into Barlavoni's hand as the police chief reached to the lamp besides his desk. Upon switching it on, his only reaction was a slight furrow of the brow…but considering that Barlavoni's job included the investigation and sometimes distribution of dead bodies in varies stages of dismemberment, you'd have to be one stricken stiff to even get a facial reaction from the Police Chief…and Mr. Griffin was one _seriously_ stricken stiff. The policeman noted the chief's expression and Even spoke with a hands-folded but grim tone, staring Barlavoni in the eye as he flipped from one photo to the next, each flip only continuing the descent of Barlavoni's brow. "The victim was strangled to death. Nearly to the point of decapitation. We've determined by the…er…_indentations _around the neck that they were administered by hands. Very very _strong_ hands. Now not a lotta people are capable of strangling someone to _that_ degree with their bare hands, chief. In fact, judging from the approximate size of the bruises and notches…the only one that we know of with that amount of strength and size is Victor Stone. We determined that the time of death was approximately around the same time he would have been 'at his apartment' all alone after work. In other words-"

"But why would Stone go out of his way to strangle this man?"

"Who knows? Maybe Griffin sold him a faulty antique or something. All that we know is that the evidence is stacking up against him, boss. He has a bad reputation with his fellow titans, a communicator of his was found directly at a crime scene _and_ he has the strength and smarts to pull something like this off."

"And his apartment?"

"Hell, I dunno. Maybe once he knew that we were getting too close to him he detonated a bomb or something inside his room, y'know, to get rid of evidence and stuff. Maybe he had that Lauren Callihan chick in there and didn't want us to find her."

"Do the new Titans have anything to say about this?"

The policeman laughed, well, _snickered_ was a more proper tone. A snicker that clearly showed that he didn't hold a particularly high opinion of the new prepubescent protagonists of the city…and would probably remain so until they got their heels dug in nice and deep. "Oh, c'mon chief. You know that those kids only get involved with the big stuff. Small homicides don't interest them at all."

Barlavoni grimaced, plopping one of the pictures onto his desk and handing the rest back to the barely smirking policeman.. "I'm still not convinced, George. Victor Stone wouldn't do something like that. He never showed any signs of violent behavior before."

An indignant huff from across from him. "Chief, this guy blasted the bejesus out of bad-guys for a living. He's plenty violent."

"But he never killed any of them. That's the important thing. For Christ's sake, _I've_ killed more people than Stone has."

"Chief, you're forgetting that we have absolutely _no_ info on this guy. We don't know if he has any family or even where he originally came from. I dunno whether this guy came out a hospital of off an assembly line. For Christ Sake's chief, we don't know a damn thing about him other than what he's told us. He's a ghost! A freakin' metal ghost!"

_A ghost_. Barlavoni whispered to himself, eyeing the computer screen. _A freakin' metal ghost._

Upon seeing that his superior obviously wasn't in the mood for talking anymore, the policeman simply shrugged and stood up. "Well, Chief, I know I can't change you're mind…I just hope that you're happy with the turnout of things once we get it." He paused in the door, finishing his coffee and dropping into a trashcan. "I'll keep you posted for anything new. You take it easy."

The door shut.

Barlavoni swiveled back to his computer with a deep, huffing frown. Happy with the turnout of things? Was that what he'd said? Hmph. Barlavoni was rarely even close to enthused when the whole thing blew over…and his Whisky Inkling was subtly hinting that this show wasn't going to be a grand opening night once it hit the stage. Finding water-holding evidence that'd stand a chance in courts was getting harder each day. What he needed was something meaner, _edgier_. Someone that'd end this case quickly and efficiently like they used to be done.

Very slowly, Barlavoni let his eye drift away from the computer screen and wonder to the white card sitting simply at the end of the table.

He just wanted to find the truth. That's all there was to do. No matter what.

Sighing again, he leaned forward and snatched it, leaning back into his seat and scrutinizing it like a miniature window showing the outcomes of what'll occur should he call that number. What would happen if he dialed in and unleashed the smiling, hazy eyed Special Agent into this case. After a moment of brow-furrowing indecision, the police chief snatched up the phone.

He just wanted the truth. That's all.

He punched in the numbers half-heartedly and slipped the receiver up to his ear. The phone rang once…twice…and, by the third ring, Barlavoni felt a secret, subtle lift of hope that Hobbs wouldn't even answer at all. However, no sooner had the fourth ring barely launched, there was a soft clicking noise and a flowing, happy voice filtered over the receiver. The voice sounded vaguely muffled, and somewhere in the background Barlavoni thought he could hear soft intervals of grainy music drifting in and out of tune, like that of an old-fashioned phonograph. It almost sounded ironically like Vera Lynn's 'We'll Meet Again'…but it was too distant to tell.

"_So good to…hear from you, Mr. Barlavoni_." It said sleepily.

Barlavoni let his teeth grind together momentarily before answering. He was going to make this as short as possible…since it was already quite impossible to make it any less _painful_. "I've decided…" A frustrated sigh. "That I would appreciate you're assistance with this case. Come to my office as soon as possible so we can discuss the guide-lines of all this."

"_Discuss the guide-lines, Mr. Barlavoni_?" The voice replied with smug amusement._ "You make it sound…like some sortah negotiation. I was hoping we could view this as nothing more than two gentleman's…combined efforts."_

Barlavoni ignored the statement and continued on as he normally would have. "Before I work with you though, I'm going to need to know some background information about you first. Your records and whatnot. It'll help me get to-"

"_Oh dear, you tried to look me up on one of you're computers, didn't you? I guess I could have told you earlier that it'd be an utter waste of time._" Barlavoni felt his grip tighten momentarily on the phone as the voice continued nonchalantly from the other end of the line._ "You see, I'm a rather _special_ agent, Mr. Barlavoni, as I'm sure I've told you beforehand…and I'm afraid that it's quite impossible to get any sortah 'records and whatnot' on me using you're system's data banks. Quite sorry about the confusion._"

FBI or not, if Jeremiah Hobbs was standing in the room with Barlavoni at that very moment, the Police Chief would have taken that smug attitude of his and shoved it so far up his ass that the next the he flapped his lips again it'd leave a bad aftertaste. However, providing that it'd require a break in several laws of physics to do so…all Barlavoni could do was bit his tongue and frown. Jeremiah Hobbs continued, regardless.

"_Well besides all that…I couldn't be happier that you've decided to allow me into you're little…investigation. I do hope that our combined efforts will bring a satisfactory and…acceptable conclusion to all this."_

"When can you get here?"

"_Oh, whenever you like, I've just been…biding my time until you finally came to your senses. I'm afraid that it could have been…a bit…sooner_."

Christ this guy was an _ass_. Barlavoni rocked his jaw to the side and continued, taking a quick peek outside the window to make sure that no officers were loitering outside his office. "Well you have my most humble _apologies_, Hobbs, but let's just focus on the fact that I'd like your assistance with this case and get a move on, shall we?"

"_I'd be delighted to, Mr. Barlavoni. I'll be by presently."_ A brief pause. "_Oh, and please get rid of that little card that I gave you. It'd be most…convenient if you were the only one with my number for now."_

Before Barlavoni could even respond, Jeremiah Hobbs had hung up. The chief hung up the phone both with a sigh of relief and a rather, throat clenching urge to pop the FBI son of a bitch as soon as he entered his office. But no, he needed to relax. This would still be his case, this would still be his show…he'll just have to get used to a glassy, narrow-faced _associate_ darting in and out of the background doing god knows what to help him put a madman behind bars. He knew he'd have to put in everything he had with this case in order to keep up with any outside help Hobbs. So far he knew that there are two stiffs, one blown up apartment, and one kidnapped girl. The stiffs were found in the downtown area…so that'd be the best place to play his trump card onto the table. The trump card in the form of a mole in the city. A damn good one at that. One that'd keep him up to date and one step ahead in the game.

He picked up the phone again.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Cyborg had to say one thing for the new Jinx. Despite the ten year time skip, the new career, and the total withdrawal of self respect…she still hadn't dropped that surprising appetite he'd seen her sport so proudly back in the HIVE academy. Not by a freakin' longshot. In less than five minutes she'd downed half the pizza, crusts and all…while he'd only finished two of his slices and half his soda. Maybe it was because she couldn't resist an invitation, maybe it was because he couldn't fill his cheeks as quickly as before…or maybe it was because there was a little bit of the old Jinx left in her after all. It was amazing to watch the small girl eat; she acted like it was for the first time she'd had a full meal in months…maybe it was. She'd said she'd spend only five or ten more minutes with him, and she had; talking rather whimsically through mouthfuls of cheese and sauce about her 'encounter' with him just the other day, her tone still merry and distantly sleepy. Those five to then minutes soon turned into twenty…and, those twenty minutes dragged into a full thirty. Of course, that was solely because Irma had dropped over ten pounds worth of assorted meats, cheeses, dough and sauces onto the table the moment she was about to leave. After that…well… it all played out as it normally _would_ have when a hungry girl is offered a free meal with no strings attached. Cyborg didn't mind. Quite personally he found it funny as hell. He also, though, knew that this wasn't how Jinx normally acted. If he were any other male _customer_ she'd of run into…well, Jinx would've most likely have already finished what her job asked; leaving him wide-eyed and gasping, herself a few dollars richer, and the encounter practically over and done with. Luckily though, this was Jinx as she used to be…and Cyborg could tell by the swells in her voice, the half smile on her lips, and those sly slinking eyes that her 'old self' had been wanting some fresh air for quite some time…it just needed some coaxing. In this case…good ol' American made pizza.

"I'm (chew) tellin' you, Cyborg (chew)" The pink-haired girl was saying, both hands supporting a deeply sagging pizza slice to her mouth. "Yesterday, in the middle of that storm, I swear I saw you (chew, chew) come wondering out of that antique store carrying something big." She paused to swallow, her hand held up like a stop sign before continuing. "I called out for you but you just high-tailed it into an alley like some sorta burglar." She leaned forward, winking at him before taking in another bite. "You're not stooping to robberies now, are you?"

Cyborg leaned forward as well taking a long, leisurely sip from his soda, keeping a raised, bemused brow to Jinx. He had decided to thoroughly enjoy this conversation. Aside from Beast Boy, Jinx had been the freshest breath of fresh air in his life since Raven. "I'm not quite _that_ desperate, Jinx." He said smiling. "Whoever you saw, it wasn't me. How many seven foot tall robots do you see antique shopping?"

Jinx snatched up another gigantic drooling pizza slice, brining it to her plate in a very matter or fact manner. She took a gigantic bite. "Well, evidently more than one b'cuz quite frankly I _know_ someone exactly like you come waltzing out of that store. Honestly though, I could tell it was you. It's sort of hard to forget the build of a guy you've slow-danced with once way back when. I'd recognize your stature anywhere."

For some reason, Cyborg blushed at this remark. Although he wouldn't exactly call Jinx's comments exactly _flirtatious_…they were definitely aimed at teasing him. This had been the third one today…though he can't honestly say he minded too much. Besides, she seemed more curious about him than anything else, a very detached almost whimsical sort of curios. She was trying to see if he was still the Cyborg she once knew.

Noting his befuddled silence, Jinx took another gigantic bite and shrugged. "Eh, you're right. It could have been anybody. It's not that important."

Cyborg took this opportunity to shift gears. "So what _were_ you doing downtown? Spying on Antique stores? Do you just hang around at street corners or something?"

Jinx was pulling the cheese from her pizza, regarding him with rather bemused eyes as she lowered it, swinging into her mouth like a kid at a birthday party. "That shop is right next to the red-light district. And yes, I do stand around at street corners and yes I _can_ see it from my corner."

Cyborg coughed and quickly lowered his head. God _Damn_ it. For some reason, he kept on forgetting Jinx's _new_ profession and the thin little line he needed to walk in order to avoid any…potentially _awkward_ situations…like this one. Looking back on the roasters, his score had amounted to five over the course of the day. Nice job, dipwad.

Jinx, however, only seemed more entertained by this, like a high-school girl conversing with a elementary level boy, the distance between them so humorously wide that she couldn't help but laugh at his befuddlements. She giggled at his frustration and continued carelessly and quite messily eating her pizza. "Oh don't get embarrassed by it, Cyborg." She said over entertained, half-lidded eyes, layering his embarrassment with a smile. "Once you get used to the thong underwear, it's really not that bad."

"I wouldn't think that your wardrobe would be the most difficult thing to get used to there, Jinx." Cyborg replied awkwardly but truthfully.

"You mean the sex?" She ventured casually, causing another unconscious shift from Cyborg. "Well you may be surprised by all this, but once you get used to everything, it's actually pretty boring stuff. Seriously, my clients practically rely on _me_ to do all the work _for_ them. It's sad really that people aren't very creative."

"Uhm...yeah. Too bad." Cyborg scratched the back of his head, looking away. Knowing _his_ luck the conversation would shift over _him _in a moment of two and hit the nail on the head. He wasn't embarrassed by the fact, but it wasn't something he normally enjoyed sliding up into dinner conversation. If it is brought up though, he'd just have to up and say the truth. He had never had sex. He _couldn't_ have sex, quite literally incapable of intimacy. Even if he somehow managed to find someone _bold_ enough to give it a shot…there was the important fact that a certain _tool_ was missing from Cyborg's tool-kit. It wasn't too hard for him to come to terms with this, especially since he didn't remember much about his life from when he _had_ all the standard parts…but, admittedly, he _had_ thought about it once or twice. It was only natural for him to do so as it is for all people as their 'teen' years come and go. But…since it was also impossible for Cyborg to physically mature and age…he soon found himself trapped in those years and could only watch as every member of his team individually 'danced the horizontal polka' as they grew up into adults. He could name them all. Beast Boy's less than favorable 'one night stand' stories were popular guffaw-getters on his show, Raven had Little Adeline as undeniable living _proof_, and Starfire and Robin were getting married soon and most likely hadn't waited for the honeymoon to, as Starfire would've put it, started the joyous act of procreating.

Cyborg wasn't really jealous of all this, mind you…he just felt more…_classified_ by it. Like the one kid who sits alone at the lunch table every day until the other students only know him _as_ 'the kid who sits alone at the lunch table'. Should he ever try and eat with the other kids, he'd no longer _be_ the 'kid who sits alone at the lunchtable' and therefore, would lose his identity. Thus…was Cyborg.

A sudden chorus of Benny Goodman's 'Sing Sing Sing' sounded from Jinx's purse, lifting both of their heads to a startled attention. Jinx turned and began rummaging through her purse for a moment, then removed a shiny red cell phone. Her _work_ phone. She flipped it open quickly, read something on the screen, then let her face visibly fall. "I have to go." She said softly. "Duty calls."

Cyborg nodded in understanding. "That's fine. Sorry if I made you late for anything."

She shook her head. "Oh don't worry about. This has been much more refreshing than anything my clients have shown me." She winked and turned to grab her purse, pausing for a moment, then turned back to him with a smile. "You know…" She said, glancing around them. "We should do this more often. Y'know, to talk and catch up. It's really pretty fun."

Cyborg chuckled and scratched the back of his head, secretly glad that the conversation had strayed from the topic of blatant reproducing. "I think that'd be fun, Jinx. Really."

She smiled and shrugged. "Thanks for the pizza. And one more thing-" She paused, pulling over a napkin and a pen from her purse. "This is my number in case you ever want to call me."

She clicked the pen shut and slid the napkin over to him, a phone number scrawled in curvy pink letters with a particularly cute punctuation at the end. Cyborg blinked, then glanced up to Jinx who had stood up already, taking one last bite of pizza with her. She met his gaze, then grinned. "And don't worry, it's not my _work_ number. It's my _normal_ cell, not the one for work."

Cyborg could only shake his head and pocket the napkin, standing up again to see her off. "I hope to see you again then. I hope that-"

The phone rang again, cutting Cyborg off. Jinx looked embarrassed, for the first time since the pizza hit the table. "I'm sorry about that." She said again, pushing her purse up farther on her shoulder.

Cyborg simply held out his hand, stopping her from saying more. The last thing he wanted was to cause Jinx to keep some client waiting. If a job as a prostitute was the only job she could get, he wouldn't want to jeopardize that because of a pizza. "It's perfectly understandable." He said. "I won't hold you up any longer."

"Aw, thanks." She gave him a quick, full hug, giving him a temporary whiff of some sultry perfume, and looked him in the eye. "You know, I think you've gotten taller." But before Cyborg could say anything (he couldn't think of anything anyway) Jinx was already trotting down the walkway towards the stairs and flipping open her cell phone, and waving goodbye over her shoulder. Cyborg watched her go until she was out of sight, letting his hands absently thrum against his thighs. He knew it was getting late…and that he had nowhere really to go except Beast Boy's house. It was a pretty long walk…but then again, it was a pretty nice day…and he was in a pretty good mood. He pushed his hands into his pockets and felt the napkin. He let his hand close on it…then let out an apathetic sigh and waited for the bill.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

"First things first." Jinx said into the cell phone in a snappy, obviously annoyed voice, her heels clicking down the steps "You're only to call me when I get off duty. Do you know how much I'm risking my job _and_ wasting my time by talking with you? This had better be worth it this time."

From the other end of the line, a very gruff and tired voice let out a sigh. "Relax, Jinx." Barlavoni stated simply. "All I'm asking for this time is to keep you're ear close to the wall. Get the scoop on the rumors and gossip in that area. We're looking for a killer. A strong guy at that. We're pretty sure he's working alone."

Jinx frowned and shifted her weight. "Any idea where I should start lookin'?"

Barlavoni cleared his throat. "There was a murder and a kidnapping at the Griffin's Antique Shop. If you've seen anything suspicious there, I want you to let me know immediately. Other than that, try to keep a low profile."

"Did you say Griffin's Antique shop?"

"Yeah…why?"

Jinx swallowed for a moment. Something flittered up from her conversation with Cyborg for a brief moment.

No…it couldn't be…

"Nothing. It's nothing." She said quickly. "I'll keep my eyes open."

Before anything else could be said, she hung up. Jinx slowly pocketed her phone, her eyes shifting.

_I swear, Yesterday during the storm I saw you come wondering out of that Antique shop, it looked like you were carrying something big_

Jinx knew she had seen Cyborg that day…she knew it.

_I called out for you but you just high-tailed it into an alley like some sorta burglar…_

_Like some sorta _something_…_

Jinx quickly shook her head and began walking down the sidewalk. She wasn't going to think about it. She didn't _want_ to think about it. Not on a full stomach.

"I swear…" She muttered. "This job is going to be the death of me…"

Ending Author's Note: Ahah! More insight! More twists! More…wait a minute, Jinx listens to Benny Goodman?!?!? Oh well, I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Any questions, comments, or concerns, you know where to click! And if you don't, it's that little box that says 'submit a review' in the bottom corner of your screen.


	14. Chapter 14 Wedge Fugue in E Minor

Author's Note: Another chapter! One proceeding the long awaited reuniting of our three heroes! What could be ahead? Conflict? Love? Murder? Someone we all know dying? A randomly incorporated sword fight? Well, I can confidently assure that all but one will take place before this tale is over. Until the, please enjoy!

Raven had been in the United States for about six hours now and already she was missing France. In the six hours since she stepped off that plane, she'd lost luggage, lost her passport, lost her patience, and wasn't too far from losing her sanity. Jesus, sometimes it even felt like people were purposefully wondering out of their way to inconvenience her life. Every single frizzy-haired, Hawaiian shirt wearing tourist was in her face waving around brochures and asking for directions, every single cigarette smoking scum-bag leaning on the wall was whistling cat-calls, and every single perky, suite wearing attendant hiding behind a desk was acting as incompetent as humanely possible whenever documentation was handed over. Her phone call to Beast Boy hadn't been an irritated demand for a ride; it had been an honest to god plea for help. At this rate, she was going to get arrested for being an illegal telepath with a daughter of mass distraction.

And to think…all of this because of a stupid dream. A vague, back-glancing, forlorn _dream_. Hmph, oh well, there was little she could do about it now. Raven and Adeline were here in America now so she might as well get used to it.

To help…she bought a cup of coffee.

She was seated at a table, both her hands locked protectively around her caffeinated purchase with four opened and crumpled creamers scattered around it. The sign had said that it was French Roast…but quite honestly it tasted more like a cup of spiked hot water in a Styrofoam cup. In the past twenty minutes she'd taken two sips. Coffee may have been pride in France…but in America, it just seemed like some form of a portable human battery. Caffeine came first, flavor came second. She couldn't even force herself to finish, so instead found herself just swirling it into a French Roast whirlpool with a very uninterested huff. Adeline was just a couple feet away, standing patiently in line for the McDonald's line for her Happy Meal, casting occasional glances back to her mother and sometimes waving. The tables around them were crowded with different colored people and clothing, the floors littered with luggage and garbage. Somewhere in that background, a baby had been screaming for the past ten minutes.

A group of young boys, no older than twenty a piece sat snickering at the table next to hers. There were four of them, each one wearing some form of excessive metal fashion accessory and clothes two sizes too big. Every so often one of them would raise his head to get a good peek at her, then instantly go back to chattering with the lowered heads of his buddies. She could hear bits and pieces of their conversation through the buzz of the terminal, most of it accompanied by snickers and elbow poking. "_Betcha she's taken…Naw she isn't…Go talk to her…Fuck no, dude, you go talk to her…Betcha twenty bucks you wouldn't last a minute...Check out that ruby on her forehead, dude, sexy stuff…She's probably from India…Naw, her boobs are too big…And she'd probably have AIDS…Seriously, twenty bucks says none of you can't keep conversation goin' for a minute..." _After a moment, one of the bolder ones finally stood up with plenty of cheering whispers from his friends. He straightened himself and leaned back to his table, whispering something none-too-discretely back to one of his friends that sounded a bit too much like 'Gimme two minutes and I'll be able to tell you what color panties she's wearin'.'

She glanced back, boredly as the boy got the thumbs up from his friends. He was short, sporting a backwards base-ball cap, a busted set of converse and a rather plain, acne scarred face that sleeked into an expression of perky jejunity as he gave her body a good once-over. His pants were unnecessarily baggy so much so that if it wasn't for an oversized T-shirt that hung down low, she'd probably be stuck looking into the crotch of his red striped boxers as soon as he sauntered over. Raven sighed and went back to staring at her coffee as the boy cleared his throat, giving a half smile as he collectively began to stroll towards her table. One of his buddies stood up on his chair and whistled at him, calling "Go get 'er Steve!".

The boy stopped and turned around, drawing a quick hand across his throat in a severe 'kill-it' gesture. He was taking this one seriously, Raven mused. He must really want to see what color underwear she was wearing. His friend laughed and plopped down in his seat, holding up his watch and pointing to it. The boy named Steve game him a thumbs up and turned back to Raven.

She said nothing.

"Sorry to interrupt," He said with wondering half-lidded eyes. "But I couldn't help but noticing that you haven't touched your coffee for over ten minutes. Does it taste bad or anything?"

Raven quietly ignored him, although through the corner of her eye she could see the rest of the gang all leaning out from their table, snickering and bobbing their heads. The boy continued, coolly confident. "Cuz it's not really a surprise if it _does_ taste awful, y'now. Especially since the shop in this place uses toilet water in their coffee." She said nothing, but the boy named Steve continued in a hush voice, as if she'd just put a hand over her mouth and gasped. "Seriously, I'm not kidding here! I've been in the bathroom taking a piss when I saw some Mexican employee just walk into one of the stalls with an empty coffee mug and _boom_, came out two minutes later with it full. I'm tellin' you, the airport is _no_ place to go if you're looking for good coffee." He paused again, leaning in a bit farther than he should have. "Now, on the _other_ hand, there's a nice little coffee shop at the bottom of Third Avenue that makes coffee the way the it _really_ should be made. Would you be interested in trying again there a little later with me? Eh?" He winked at her. "My treat."

Raven continued to absently stir her coffee. "If you want, I'll let you talk to me for two minutes so you don't lose your bet you have going with your friends."

Instantly the boy's table, who'd been eagerly eavesdropping, all recoiled with a chorus of 'Oooooh's until the boy named Steve whirled around to silence them. He turned back to Raven and her rather unimpressed stare. "Naw, don't pay any attention to them." He said, waving a hand in their direction. "Some stupid bet isn't why I came over here." He paused then leaned in, tilting his head with a subtle eyebrow bob. "I actually did it because you looked…_sophisticated_."

Again, Raven didn't answer. The boy named Steve frowned only for a moment then narrowed his eyes at an idea for a change in subject. Quietly, he leaned in to look her in the eye, pointing at her forehead. "I noticed that you have one of those ruby thingies there. That means you're from India, right?"

"Azarath." She said flatly.

"Cool." He responded, completely unfazed. "That's that city in Europe right? Sounds like you come from pretty far away to come all the way to Jump City."

"You could say that." She responded, playing with the lip of the coffee cup with her index finger.

"You must be pretty smart to be able to learn two languages. How many can you speak?"

"A few."

Getting slightly flustered by her minimal syllabic answers and the occasional curly fry being tossed at the back of his head by his cackling friends; the boy named Steven finally shrugged and extended his hand, once again changing battle tactics. "Well, in case you were wondering; my name's Stephen Malbery. You can call me Steve if you want…"

"Raven. Pleasure." Raven took his hand without even looking at him. His hand was warm and sweaty, with a relatively weak grip being compensated for by squeezing a _bit_ too hard.

"Raven…" He repeated thoughtfully, still shaking her hand. "Like the bird, raven?"

"Sure." She said.

"Do you have a _last_ name, Miss Raven like the bird?"

"No."

"How about a number I can reach you at?"

"Not really, no."

The boy named Steve bit his lip, putting his weight from one leg to the other and finding that he was equally uncomfortable on each. The same friend from his table stood up again putting both hands over his mouth. "She doesn't want yah, Steve!"

The boy named Steve, let out a quick sigh and put both his hands down on her table, leaning forward a bit too far. "Look, _Raven_." He whispered. "I think that it's awfully mean of you to just blow me off like this. Can you at least let me buy you another coffee? That stuff must be shit-cold by now."

"No thank you."

He sighed again, sharply this time. Raven glanced over and met his gaze, noting his irritation with a tired, sigh. The last thing she needed was to start a commotion. "Listen, what's your name again?"

Instantly, he perked up. "Stephen! Stephen Malbery!"

"Okay, Stephen Malbery," She said patiently, folding her hands and staring directly up at him. "I'd like to tell you something you may not have realized while you were talking to your pals over there. I have _no_ interest in _any_ of you."

"O-ho…I think I get it." He leaned in and winked. "You're not a lesbian are you?"

An irritated sigh. "No, I'm-"

"Cuz it's perfectly okay if you are. Quite frankly I think it's hot!"

_Christ, this guy is worse than Beast Boy!_ "No, Stephen, just listen to-"

"Is your girlfriend anywhere's around here? I'd be kick-ass if I see you two make ou-"

Suddenly, a Happy McMeal plopped down on the table and a little girl slid happily into her seat. "Hi Momma!" Adeline said happily.

Everyone at both tables stopped talking.

The boy named Steve slowly glanced from Raven to Adeline with the expression of a man who'd just realized he'd sat on the narrow end of a splintered broom-stick. Finally, the mental gears aligned themselves correctly so the slow recognition of the fact that the hot chick he'd been ogling at for the past hour at had already gone 'round all three bases' with another dude and that the _other dude_ was most likely still around. He didn't have anything to say so he quickly stood up, so quickly in fact that his elbow caught the lip of Raven's coffee, emptying their contents onto the crotch of his pants, and despite the fact that it'd been sitting out for a quite a while, the contents were still hot enough to make him give off a high-pitched "_FUCK_!".

Adeline calmly removed a burger and took a small, little bite, glancing up at the boy named Steve with a nonchalant interest as he danced around with a wafts of steam billowing from his crotch, his pants which were nearly riding down to his knees. "Who's the guy with the red underwear, momma?"

Raven wish she didn't laugh right at that moment, but something about the simplicity of Adeline's expression as she chewed absently away at her burger with her little feet swinging underneath her chair just made it so damn impossible. It was a belly-laugh for sure, full and hearty. One that she hadn't felt in _such_ a long time. Funny how it just took an 11-year old girl, a boy named Steve, and a cup of bathroom water French Roast to spark it. The boy named Steve didn't seem to notice. He was too busy swiping a napkin across the front of his pants as if they were one fire; his eyes sweeping the room for any potential husbands to come roaring out from the McDonald's line to kick his sorry ass through a window.

Adeline simply blinked and took another bite as a couple of people from surrounding tables slowly glanced over their seats to see what the commotion was all about. Raven didn't really care. It was all too damn _funny_ to care. Despite everything, Raven once again getting used to living in America.

The boy named Steve was retreating for the stalls, his gait that of a constipated penguin and each step accompanied by a hissing '_fuck'_ or '_damn'_. More than several heads watched him go, Steve's table full of friends laughing nearly as hard as Raven was as he waddled by. By the looks of it, the boy named Steve wasn't going to be giving her any more trouble today.

Raven continued laughing, leaving Adeline to sit there wondering just what the hell she did that was so funny. Finally, she just gave up on it and went back to her Mcburger with a content shrug.

After a moment, she heard her cell phone go off. Still chuckling slightly Raven removed it and glanced at the I.D.

GARFIELD LOGAN

As quickly as it had come, Raven stifled her laugh. In less than a moment, her phone was to her ear and her tone back to the deadpan which her green companion knew so well. Beast Boy wasn't going to talk to her when she was happy. She'd called him over an _hour_ ago and he was just now getting hold of him. He was going to have to answer to Raven as he knew her best.

"Beast Boy? Where the _hell_ are you?"

A hesitation, then, a rather unsure almost feminine voice answered. A voice that wasn't Beast Boy's. The reception was grainy, but in the background, Raven could hear what sounded like car running and a lot of noisy car horns beeping angrily. "Uhm…no. This isn't Mr. Logan…this is Harry Hesmond. I'm Mr. Logan's _assistant_."

Raven blinked. "Wha? Why isn't Beast Boy returning this call?"

Another unsure pause. "Well…Mr. Logan was in the middle of a party. He…uh…he was busy. He told me to come pick you up, but to find out where you were first. So…where are you?"

Again, Raven could only blink. "Wait, how did he know I needed to be picked up? How did he even know I was in _America_?"

"He…uhm, said that you wouldn't call him unless you were coming over to visit. He wanted me to bring you a ride in his personal limo."

Raven slunk back in her chair, pressing her tongue against her cheek. _God damn lucky guess, Beast Boy._

"Look, what is your name again? Harold?"

"Harry. Harry Hesmond….you can call me Hex, though. A lotta people do."

"Okay, fine, Hex. I'm at the airport; you can pick my daughter and me up in the lobby."

Over the line Raven could hear Hex call to someone. "They're at the airport, Dunbar; stop reading your book and step on it!"

This was quickly followed by an unhappy sigh, a very sudden revving of an engine and a dangerously thick squealing of rubber accompanied by angrier car horns and yapping pedestrians.

Raven ran her tongue unhappily against her teeth. She knew that Beast Boy had snatched a gig in showbiz after the Titans split but what could he be doing that'd get him a personal secretary _and_, by the sounds of it, a personal limo driver? Whatever it was, though, it probably meant that Beast Boy was going to lay down the bragging rights he earned by proving Raven wrong. (Right before she left for France she'd apparently made a bet with him stating that the highpoint in his entire showbiz career would be refilling David Letterman's coffee cup. Looks like she'd have to chalk one up to easily entertained societies who love green, pointy-eared comedians.) Still, though, a green pointy-eared comedian was _not_ why Raven had come to America. In truth it was a six and a half foot tall cyborg who didn't answer the telephone at his house for hours on end, despite the fact that Raven had kept it ringing throughout most of the morning on her flight over. Maybe Hex somehow knew where he was…or at least his boss.

"Listen, Hex," She said. "Do you know anyone named Cyborg? Your boss, Beast Boy knows who he is. Has he ever mentioned him in the past?"

Instantly, the voice on the other end of the line perked up like a flute. "You mean Mr. Stone? _The_ Mr. Stone? Oh, _yes_, I know who he is! He's the big, good looking, muscled guy, right?"

From somewhere on the other side of the line, Raven could have sworn she heard what must have been Dunbar mutter "_Queer_…" under his breath before Hex's voice once again filled the line.

"What do you need to know about him?"

"Well is he all right? I haven't been able to reach his phone all day."

"Oh." Hex replied rather bluntly. "His apartment got blown up."

"_What_?"

"Yeah, his entire room exploded."

Raven faltered for a moment, seriously considering laughing at this statement when she remembered her dream. The dream of fire, music, and meaning. It was a stretch alright…but it had been the only reason why she trudged across the country in search of him. She sighed. Until she knew if this guy Hex was telling the truth or not she'd give him the benefit of the doubt. "Was he hurt? Is he okay? What did it?"

Hex's voice rang out again, riddled with girlish admiration. "Oh, they're still trying to figure it all out…but Mr. Stone was _more_ than okay. Mr. Logan was giving him a ride back to his apartment from the police station during a big rainstorm! And when we reached his apart-"

"The _police_ station?"

"He completely saved Mr. Logan's life! It was _incredible_!"

"Wait, wait a minute there Hex! Why was Cyborg at the police station?"

"Oh…I dunno…suspected of a murder or something. But, as I was saying, he was _just_ about to get to his apartment when 'boom'! The entire thing just completely _explodes_ and this _gigantic_ fireball comes screeching out into the street and Mr. Stone totally saved Mr. Logan's life! I was in the limo with Dunbar when we see-"

People in France always knew when to end conversations, especially when the conversation became one sided waste of oxygen. Raven didn't like it when peopled talked anyways…so she was going to pick this up with the appropriate person at the appropriate time.

"Look…Hex, can you just tell Dunbar or whoever to hurry up and get here? I would really like to…you know, get to Cyborg's place."

"I already told you. It's completely blown up."

Raven sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "_Fine_, then where is he now?"

"Eh, I don't really know. Mr. Logan wants him to stay over at his house until he gets back up onto his feet." Again his voice picked up. "And he also said that _I'll_ be able to come and visit him!"

"Then where are we going to stay?"

Aside from a prolonged 'uhhh', Hex didn't answer. He remained silent until Dunbar whispered something to him like a teacher prompting a kid on stage, to which Hex immediately responded. "Oh, yeah. He said that you are free to stay at his house as well. He said that it'd be like a reunion or something. I suppose that's where you'll be staying…I mean…if that's okay with you."

Raven could only shake her head, pressing a palm against her forehead. "You know what? Fine. Yeah, that'll work. Just pick us up as soon as possible."

"Already then. It was nice talking to you! And don't worry, Dunbar drives fast!"

Raven snapped shut her cell phone and pocketed it with another temple-rubbing sigh.

"You have that look again, momma." Adeline whispered, looking sheepishly up over her Happy Meal.

Raven huffed and lazily slapped the table with both her palms. "Yes. Mommy is probably going to have this look until I see Uncle Cyborg again, sweety."

"Was that Mr. Beast Boy on the phone?" She asked, struggling with a small plastic bag encompassing a strawberry bratz doll from the bottom of her happy McMeal bag. (In all truthfulness, Adeline secretly had a very small interest in toys of fast food restaurants. The only reason she'd even get them was because she didn't want to hurt their feelings. More times then not, she'd end up leaving it with another little girl so _she_ could play with it instead.)

Raven noted her daughter's struggles and leaned forward, plucking the plastic bag from her. "No." She sighed wrestling it open and tossing the toy to Adeline. "It was someone who works _for_ Mr. Beast Boy. He says that we're going to be staying at Mr. Beast Boy's house for a while, okay? Keep your eyes peeled for a limo."

Adeline instantly dropped the four inch plastic doll, glancing quickly up to her mother. "But I thought we were staying with Uncle Cyborg! Is he okay?"

"Yes, yes, don't worry; Uncle Cyborg is going to be living there too. It's going to be…uh…family reunion. It'll be fun."

_If it isn't a complete disaster…_

"You don't sound like you're looking forward to it."

"That's because I'm tired. I'm still trying to get over the jetlag." She furrowing her brow, she leaned towards her daughter. "Aren't you tired?"

Adeline glanced up innocently. "No, not really." She said. "Should I be?"

Raven shook her head, amused. She was just like her father. Always floating against the norm and always so clueless about it. God, she loved that about her daughter just as she had loved it in her father. If there was one thing Raven liked in a person, it was a deep sense of originality. Someone who takes a left when everyone else sticks to the right. Someone you can listen to without knowing how the conversation ends. People _unlike _the boy named Steve…and, come to think of it, most of the male population she'd had the misfortune to stumble across. Even in France, although a little more subtly, Raven had noticed that the men's eyes still wondered just like they did in America. Whenever she'd bend down to retrieve something at a grocery store, a little red flag would go up in her head stating the prepubescent cashier was getting his own little gratuitous peep show. Raven had told herself that it was because she was sort of pretty, but, as most of the other men she met had insisted, because she was _downright beautiful_. Although she'd already had a child, Raven _was_ a woman in the _prime_ of her life.

Just now approaching twenty seven and sporting a physique that would make a _woman's_ head turn should she walk by. She wasn't voluptuous by any means, and quite honestly, Raven had always thought that the body she had now was just a taller version of her own as a Teen Titan…though many passing males had insisted through ear-wide grins that she was first-class model material. What a troublesome inconvenience. By all means Raven had _not_ gone out of her way to achieve her current physique; once Adeline was born her main priority was the well-being and safety of her daughter instead of her butt. However, because she was stuck with a body other women would kill for; Raven was forced to forcibly consult her feelings on finding…someone else.

The subject itself was one touchy enough for her to comfortably ignore for nearly ten years with not trouble at all; keeping herself preoccupied as long as she had baby Adeline to constantly call her attention…but little Adeline was no longer a baby. She didn't need her mother looking over her shoulder every two seconds anymore. She could cut her _own_ vegetables, she could sleep in her _own_ bed, and she could read her _own_ books in her _own_ room. After the ninth year passed, Raven began to notice how utterly _alone_ she if Adeline wasn't there at her side. Whenever she'd glance up from her book…the room would still be empty. Whenever she'd go to bed…the pillow next to her would still be unoccupied. Her books and writings couldn't smother this fact forever. Gradually but surely, she grew to hate being alone. Hated living in their big house, hated the empty chairs at the dinner table, and hated feeling those unoccupied sheets with her legs in her big empty bed.

Raven needed _company_.

She needed _companionship_.

She needed…to truly _live_ again.

Those had been the last things Adeline's father had said to her over eleven years ago.

_Live Raven, truly…live._

To live is to be happy…to be happy is to love…to love is to _have_ someone. Raven had Adeline…but Adeline couldn't warm a bed or provide a sense of honest desire for her company that went beyond a mother/daughter relationship. Only Adeline's father had been able to do that. And he was dead. Eleven years had passed and during that time the only person to share Raven's bed had been Adeline when she was eight years old and susceptible to bad dreams.

Raven huffed to herself and snatched up one of Adeline's French fries and smiled, allowing her concerns to drift. She didn't need to worry about that now. She was in America. Privacy meant nothing here. She couldn't be alone even if she _wanted_ to be.

She glanced over at a large clock hanging on the wall of the terminal. 5 p.m., right on the hour. Out of the bathroom, his face and pants still looking rather pissed, the boy named Steve sauntered by her table, casting a resentful half-lidded glare in her direction as he passed towards his friends. Raven returned his gaze with a knowing smile, letting him know with a slight nod of her head that no matter how ruff and tumble he acted now, she'd always remember him as that ass that spilt coffee on his crotch.

Adeline nudged her mother's arm. "Momma." She stated simply. "There's a limo pulling by the window."

Raven furrowed her brow and glanced over the back of her seat. Sure enough, there was an over sized, steely back limousine parallel parking at a rather surprising speed into the lot with a loud screech of brakes. Raven consulted it for a moment, the shook her head. "Forget it Adeline, that can't be ours. It takes at least twenty minutes to get way out-"

The door third from the back clicked open and a lanky, sunny blonde young man stepped out, consulting the crowds with gigantic black-rimmed glasses; an unnecessarily large tie swinging in the breeze. In the driver's seat of the limo, a rather elderly gentleman removed a book and promptly began reading, leaving the car idling despite the chorus of irritated car horns behind it.

It was them alright. Dunbar and Hex. Christ they got here fast.

"Adeline." Raven said cleanly. "Get your bags ready, we're going."

Adeline glanced back up. "In the limo?"

"Yes." Raven said, snatching up her bags and slinging them over her shoulders while giving Dunbar a narrow eyed stare. "And be sure you buckle up once we get inside."

Ending Author's Note: Hooray! Raven's back in America and she's still holding onto that reservation for the heartbreak hotel! Don't worry; next chapter will most likely have the big reunion that has taken too many chapters to achieve. As for Raven's feelings; well, ten years is a long time not to 'have' somebody of your own. I think that anyone in that situation would start feeling a need for companionship eventually. Question is….WILL SHE FIND IT BEFORE TOTAL ANNIHILATION??? Please review 'n stuff.


	15. Chapter 15 Air on the G String

Author's Note: FROM EUROPE, I HATH RETURNED! For the past three and a half weeks my family and I have been sightseeing in London, sipping coffee in France, dancing on tables in Switzerland, taking Gondola rides in Venice, and visiting the coliseum in Rome. It has been an immensely enjoyable trip. The only drawback…I haven't updated my story nor reviewed anyone else's work. For that, I am deeply sorry. I promise to make up for all that I have missed out on. So, without further ado, here's the next chapter.

A throat was cleared.

A collar was calmly readjusted.

The man stood in front of the large, golden-framed mirror, watching his comb slowly slide through wispy blonde hair two years away from turning completely white. His eyes glided closed…then opened. He grinned. Then spoke.

"My name is Special Agent Jeremiah Hobbs."

The smile faded. The throat was cleared again. A black gloved hand snatched a glass of water he quickly downed it. The eyes drifted to their reflection. Again, the smile returned.

"My name is Special _Agent_ Jeremiah Hobbs."

And again…the smile faded.

The man sighed, reaching his gloved hand drifted over to an old-fashioned recorder on the table next to him. His finger stopped over a button…promptly pushed it.

He needed to hear it again.

'_Play'_ _click_

A gentle hiss of static…a garble of miniscule machinery…then voices drawled out from the wire-framed speakers.

_ssssssssssssssss_

_click_

…

…

…

"Good morning, sleepyhead."

"…_Mmmph_…"

"Do you know what time it is?"

"…that…that _light_…it's…_bright_…"

"Six o'clock and time for your shots. Oh, don't give me that look and please try to remember that we agreed there'll be no more screaming."

"I…it…hurts…the light…"

"Also, since yesterday's shot didn't convince you to talk, I'm afraid I'm going to have to up the dosage a little. Nothing much, don't worry."

"…No…please…no…."

"I'm sorry, but I can't take chances. Hold still."

"…_mmmph_…"

"There we go. Feeling any more forthcoming?"

"It's…it's _cold_. It _hurts_…"

"Yes….but it _is_ necessary. It keeps you from _lying_ to me like you did last time. You lied and forced me to push the red button, remember? You remembered what happened when I pushed the red button?"

"...Oh Jesus…the _whistling_! Oh no…no, no, no, no don't, _please_-"

"Then answer my questions and learn from your mistakes."

"…_sob_…"

"Oh, don't worry, I'm a forgiving man. I am still _very_ willing to try this all over again. Same thing as last time, remember? Clean slate. I'm going to begin now. Is that okay?"

"Please…don't push the button…I beg you…"

"Remember, this is being recorded. I need you to speak nice and loud okay?"

"I…I…don't…"

"First question. What is your name?"

"I…you've…already asked…yesterday…"

"_What_ is your name?"

"Jeremiah! Jeremiah Hobbs! Oh God, don't push the button!"

"Tell me what your job is, Mr. Jeremiah Hobbs."

"I'm…I'm an agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. A…a _Special Agent_. I've been wo-"

"Say your title and your name, Mr. Jeremiah Hobbs."

"Special…Special Agent Jeremiah Hobbs."

"Can police obtain information on your identity without consulting the FBI, Special Agent Jeremiah Hobbs?"

"No…I'm a special agent…my identity is a complete secret. The police would have no way of finding out who I am."

"Good. Now tell me about your family, Special Agent Jeremiah Hobbs."

"Oh God, don't bring them into this! I beg you!"

"_Tell_ me about your _family_, Special Agent!"

"I have…I have a daughter. She's…fourteen years old, in the 8th grade. I divorced my wife two years ago. Oh _please_ don't hurt them!"

"Does either of them know you're a Special Agent?"

"…No. Neither of them. They don't know _anything_."

"Do _you_ know who _I_ am?"

"N-no! I have no idea who you are. I…don't know anything about you!"

"Ooooh, I think you _do_ Mr. Hobbs. Now what did I say about lying?"

"But…but you haven't let me see you yet! You keep that mask on, you use that voice scrambler! I have no fuckin' way of knowing anything about you! Who _are_ you?"

"Oh, I prefer to think of myself as a _doctor_. A doctor trying to do something _right_. I'll have you know that I've been around a _while_, Mr. Hobbs, I've seen how the world really _is_. I've saluted the red white and blue, prayed to Jesus every Sunday, and even enlisted with the boys in uniform just as every good little American _should_…but patriotism means _nothing_ to someone like me. I entered the army as a doctor. I was carted boys half my age who'd been cut up like a rich cherry _pies_, Mr. Hobbs, I spent nearly five months hunkered down in a bunker sewing screaming, bloody soldiers with enemy artillery exploding around us. After the worst blew over, though, I had become so adept at _saving_ lives my superiors soon wanted me to find better ways to _end_ them. A job which I _also_ became very adept at. With each war that passed, I felt a little bit of myself go with it. I lost my identity in the jungles of Vietnam, I lost my innocence in the deserts of the Middle East, and amidst those endless fields of bodies and overflowing rivers of blood…I may very well of lost my _soul_. After nearly forty years of service to Uncle Sam I left the military with a dissolved sense of patriotism and loyalty. I've worked for countless organizations and have saluted countless flags…but they're all the same to me now. My original name has left me, Mr. Hobbs, and over the years…I've taken countless others; Carl Newhaven, Charles McGuiness, Francis Donovan, Peter Hodges, Gulliver Swanson, Frank Westmore, Ivan Gutenstern, Jean Claude Francisco, Mr. Patterson, Mr. Owsald, The Razor, The Surgeon, the Cheshire Cat...a countless number of names…but they're _just_ names, Mr. Hobbs. As permanent and meaningful as the clothes I wear every day; able to be removed and discarded whenever I wish. All that I am now is a Good Doctor, catalyst to the human condition."

"…Why…Why are you doing this?"

"During my militaristic career I've created many demons before I made an angel. Now that I've made my angel, I have to get rid of the demons…or, to be technically correct, _Jeremiah Hobbs_ is going to get rid of them."

"What…what are you saying?"

"I've already taken the adequate molds of your face; I've studied every inch of your body, and I know _all_ your medical conditions. For two years I've been studying your social behavior, eating habits, involuntary mannerisms and _now_ have plenty of recordings of your voice so I can practice that little southern _slur_ of yours. Oh, I know I'll have fun toying around with that one."

"But why me? Why the hell did you choose to do this to _me_?"

"Quite frankly, because you were the FBI agent that's been tracking _me_ for the past eleven years. From what I understand, I've been the thorn in the side of your organization for _quite_ a while. Now the man you've been hunting is about to become _you_. Oh, Aesop jus _had_ to have a fable to characterize irony like this."

"…_Red_…"

"I'm afraid _that's_ just another name I've pushed aside, Mr. Hobbs. As of now, I'm Jeremiah Hobbs, thank you very much."

"It can't be…_you_ _CAN'T_ be!"

"Ah, I _knew_ you were going to get upset about this. I think that'd it be best that I left now."

"You'll pay for this! Do you hear me! I'll fucking lock you up, Red, until you rot and FUCKING DIE!"

"And don't worry about getting lonely, Mr. Hobbs, I promised a little angel of mine that I'd be giving him a fun new _friend_ to play with. He has an outfit already made out for you and _everything_. You see, the two of us will be going on a little trip tomorrow and he deserves a treat for being so patient. In fact, why don't I call him in? He'd absolutely _love_ to meet you."

"Wait! What are you doing? You promised you wouldn't press that button! I-I'm sorry I yelled! Just call it off! I'm sorry!"

"He'll be along in a moment…I'll leave you two alone while I get dressed up. Goodbye Mr. Hobbs. I think I'm going to enjoy being you."

"For the love of God don't do this! Don't leave me alone with it! Don't leave me fuckin' alone with it! I can hear it coming! Call it off! Call it o-"

'_Stop'_ _click_

'_Rewind'_ _click_

_Fid-fid-fid-fid-fid-fid-fid-fid-fid-fid-fid-fid-fid-fid-fid-fid-fid-fid-fid-fid-fid-fid-fid-fid-fid_

'_Play' click_

..."Tell me what your job is, Mr. Jeremiah Hobbs."

"I'm…I'm an agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. A…a _Special Agent_. I've been wo-"

"State your title and your name, Mr. Jeremiah Hobbs."

"Special…Special Agent Jeremiah Hobbs."

"Can police obtain informa-"

'_Stop' click_

'_Rewind' click_

_Fid-fid-fid-fid-fid-fid_

'_Play' click_

"Special…Special Agent Jeremiah Hobbs."

'_Stop' click_

'_Rewind' click_

_Fid-fid-fid_

'_Play' click_

"Special…Special Agent Jeremiah Hobbs."

'_Stop' click_

The man slowly glanced up at himself in the mirror once more. Casually cleared his throat. Casually drained another glass of water. Smiled again. "Special Agent Jeremiah Hobbs."

He paused…then spoke again. "Special Agent Jeremiah Hobbs. So pleased to meet you again, Mr. Barlavoni."

The smile came back. This time, it stayed.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Though it was perfectly possible to take the bus or snag a cab, Cyborg had decided to _walk_ to Beast Boy's house. It had been sunny out, the streets were relatively uncrowded, and that cheese pizza had left him in a particularly _good_ mood. That, of course had been when Cyborg believed that Beast Boy lived in a quiet, reasonable place in town with a decent neighborhood and a view of the Jump City Opera House.

Sufficed to say…Garfield Logan didn't.

Apparently, four years with a smash hit show, nation wide-renown, and one or two television ads was easily enough to convince an inexperienced ex-superhero to snag a house clear over in _East Jump City_; the most expensive, glamorous, and over-rated part of town.

That…was where he was headed.

There were always _two_ types of rich people; the wealthy whose happiness comes with their _income_…and the wealthy whose happiness comes only when everyone else _knows_ about their income. It seemed that whenever a certain level of wealth has been obtained, people often see fit to ensure that _everyone_ knows it. Cyborg didn't particularly know _why_ they needed to. Maybe they saw it as passing some sort of social-status gauntlet and, like some kid with his knickers at the ankles bursting in on his parents, feel the need to announce that they've mastered society's _big toilet_ and thus deserve to be treated as such.

It'd be funnier if East Jump City wasn't _full_ of these types of people. Cyborg had only wandered into one of the East Jump Mansions only once before, and _that_ was when Mumbo Jumbo had turned one particular lodging into his own personal studio during a dinner party. Sufficed to say Mumbo didn't go quietly and the resulting damages to the household and property had raised the costs of repairs into the hundreds of thousands. This, of course, led to a handful of lawsuits and the citizens of East Jump holding a deep resentment for any sort of masked vigilante justice.

Sheesh, they clap and cheer when you defeat the bad-guy but only if it's not their car you used as cannon-cover during the fight.

The Titans always carried a subtle, narrowed eyed distaste for the citizens of East Jump…and now Beast Boy was one of them. With his own mansion to run around in with all the girls, beers, and stiff-lipped butlers he wanted. Irony at its finest moment right there. To be honest it sounded like an Adam Sandler movie.

As Cyborg thought of it; there were people who were meant to be rich…people who could be rich _efficiently_…and then there were rich people like Beast Boy who'd happily spend two hours trying to coax an elderly butler into headstand. No doubt about it, Beast Boy's neighbors weren't getting a wink of sleep at night. Quite personally, Cyborg hoped that Beast Boy was making their lives a living hell.

Finding directions to his house hadn't been too difficult either. Not only did people give directions, they also would rattle off every run-in they've ever had with the illustrious Garfield Logan. People would boast that they'd shaken his hand once, saw him eating at their favorite restaurant, and just how many shows of his they've actually attended. A local magazine stand owner was even able to tell him what he had for lunch the previous day as he nonchalantly flipped through the back pages of a magazine.

He had been a portly, inattentive, and avidly eating a sub sandwich with his eyes glued in a magazine. "You mean Garfield Logan's house?" He had asked between bites, flipping a page.

Cyborg had nodded in response. "Yeah. I'm just wondering."

The man nodded, waving a hand down the street and flipping a page. "It's right at the end of the 132 in East Jump. Big house, three stories, has his initials right on the gate. You can't miss it."

Cyborg had thanked him and had turned to leave…but not before spotting the back cover of the man's magazine. On it, a very suave looking Beast Boy with a very prominent milk moustache sat smiling at his desk; glass of milk in hand with the 'Garfield Logan Show' blinking in the background. Jesus, so the little green fart had managed to land himself a GOT MILK picture. Now knowing this Cyborg feared to think what _other_ product, dairy or otherwise, his friend had managed to slap his name on while he'd been living in the fast lane. It was worse enough he had his own talk show; the _last_ thing he needed were ego boosters like merchandising and sponsoring. At this rate Beast Boy might have a standard _dress code_ for his house; one that ran several levels above what he had on right now. In his defense, though, had Cyborg of _known_ that Beast Boy's house was actually located all the way in _East Jump…_well, he would have at _least_ put the extra effort in to change out of street clothes. Looking down at himself now, he was still dressed in his tumbled blue jeans, his extra baggy hoodie, and a pair tight leather gloves; _all_ of which had holes in them and _all_ of which hadn't been necessarily washed properly in a good four or so days.

Great.

There wasn't another pair of dirty jeans in all of East Jump and yet he'd be wondering right up to the nest of the prettiest proudest goose in the pond.

Hell…maybe he should go naked.

It was an hour's walk by a watch's count but Cyborg had decided to drag out the little endeavor as long as possible. If he took long enough he could possibly reach Beast Boy's mansion just around when the green ex-titan would be returning home from work. If he was lucky Beast Boy would already be waiting there, ready to let him in with big welcome grin and a chocolate mint on his pillow.

He reached East Jump about an hour later, nestled in a small dip of land towards the back of the upper-class part of the city. Little by little smell of car exhaust, garbage and population slowly shifted to the rosy fresh air of wealth and luxury tinted with chlorine and perfume. The overflowing garbage cans disappeared and the shoe-less bums lounging on the corners of the streets were replaced with grinning rich guys with their short white hair, sun-burnt faces, and cell phones balanced between their shoulders and ears.

Cyborg pulled his hood down further over his face as the tanned, grinning East Jump inhabitants strolled by on either side of the walk, their noisy heels slapping on the walk. Although avoiding all eye contact, he could feel them staring at him with dubious, uncomfortable and unpleased glances. Cyborg was a sore thumb in this place, sticking out like a drunk frat-boy at a gala event with all the other tuxedo-sporting attendees being too damn polite to say anything. Eh, just as well. He'd probably have nothing to say should one of them gather up enough balls to tell him to scram.

By now he had cleared the line of stores in the main part of East Jump where most of the people, big window, and nice cars were. _Now_ he was passing row after row of hedges, turning his head to read the initials on each gate he passed, occasionally catching a glimpse of the mansion behind it. Big mansions too, like the ones on reality T.V. shows. The ones with abstract architecture, pools shaped like inkblots and more decorative lights than a Broadway stage.

At least the gates were readable enough…if only he could find the right initials.

"F.G…no. Y.T…no. G.A…close, but no…" Sigh.

He let his gaze wonder, searching down the next several gates in either direction. Same. No difference at all. All he could do was hope to god that there weren't any other rich guys in East Jump with G.L. as initials or this could quickly turn into a very long day. He glanced up to make sure he was on the right street, and then begrudgingly continued.

"E.G…no. A.D…no. H.D…no."

From the end of the street, he heard two horns blare loudly, one after the other. This was quickly followed by a screech of brakes and a squeal of rubber on pavement. Cyborg turned around just in time to see a shiny black limo go careening past him down the street with two nice looking cars nearly run up onto the sidewalks behind it, still angrily beeping their horns like a pair of ruffled seagulls.

_Dunbar…_, Cyborg thought as the limo zoomed by. _There's not another limo driver in the world who'd drive like that._

He watched as the limo flew down the street, making a sudden and very impossible looking ninety degree turn, the back-tires leaving a sweeping arc of burnt rubber on the street as it came to a hard and steady stop in front of the gate several houses down from Cyborg. A window rolled down and a very bored looking Dunbar stuck his head out the window, muttering something inaudible into a small comm. box before slipping back into his seat and sliding up the window again. Cyborg watched as the gates swung open and the limousine took off, the sun light winking off each of the seven windows as it passed. Just before it passed through, however, Cyborg noticed that the last window had been rolled down and for a fleeting moment…he caught a glimpse of a figure profiled against the red, leather upholstery of the limo's insides.

A woman reading a book. A woman with blue hair…and pale skin.

…_Raven…_

"RAVEN!" He yelled, waving his arms. "HEY RAVEN! OVER HER-"

The limo passed completely inside and the iron gate snapped shut as if deliberately cutting him off. Cyborg blinked and began running, his mind racing. Surprisingly enough, though, he hadn't found it odd that Raven was in the backseat of Beast Boy's personal limo, or even really noted that she was in America two days ahead of schedule.

The only thing that he'd really noticed was…

…_would you look how pretty she's gotten…_

He skidded to a halt outside the gate just in time to see the limo climb up a winding white driveway to yet another ridiculously abstract mansion. He yelled again, both hands grasping the bars of the gate. "Raven! Hey Raven! Over here! It's Cy-"

The comm. box blinked on and a very unenthused voice garbled through a speaker.

"_May I help you?"_

Cyborg looked at it for a moment, then quickly ran over. A small camera lens stared back and the same voice mumbled through the speaker again.

"_This is Mr. Logan's residence. May I help you?"_

"Please," Cyborg huffed. "You need to let me in. Someone I know has just arrived in Beast Boy's limo and-"

The voice interrupted, almost like it was correcting him. "_Mr. Logan, prefers to be called by his real name and I can only let you in upon his personal invitation_."

"I _did_ get an invitation! He told me I could live here!"

A pause on the other end of the line. The camera buzzed and zoomed in.

"_State your name_."

Cyborg gritted his teeth, glancing back through the gate. At this point, the limo had parked outside the mansion and he could see the figurines of Hex and Dunbar step out. Dunbar slowly made his way to the back and popped the trunk, taking out two large suitcases. _Travel_ suitcases.

Raven really _had_ come over from France.

"_I need you to state your name, sir_." The box snipped again, a non-too-subtle tone of impatience underlying each word.

Cyborg snapped back to attention. "It's Cyborg."

Another pause. "_Who_?"

"Cyborg! You know, used to be Teen Titan?"

"_You're a Teen Titan_?"

"No, _used_ to be, godammit! _Used_ to be!"

Again he glanced back at the mansion. Hex was circling around the last passenger seat and awkwardly opened the door.

Then, dressed in faded blue jeans, an average blue blouse, and sun-glasses…Raven stepped out of the limo. There was no mistaking it. Cyborg stopped talking just to catch a good long glimpse at her.

She'd…grown. She was an adult now.

…_A very very beautiful adult…_

Even at the distance he was at right now, Cyborg could tell that Raven had gotten taller. Her once short blue hair now had grown down to the middle of her back; untied and free to blow in the breeze. She didn't slouch, didn't hide under a hood, the diamond on her forehead confidently displayed. She was secure now, strong and striking. She was different alright…but she was still Raven. Despite the fact that she had gotten taller and her body had become that of an adult…he could still see that deep, unfathomable girl that had taken him all those years ago. Her calm, situated face had remained, her eyes still held a bottomless mystic knowing …and most of all, her smile was still warm and contagious. Years could never change Raven. Nothing could. Not even a daughter.

Then, for the first time in two years, Cyborg got butterflies. The kind that raise your eyebrows and make your breaths long and drawn out. _Damn_, he missed that feeling. So much so in fact that he barely even heard the little box again as it buzzed out.

"_I'm sorry, Mr. Cyborg but I'm going to need some verification. Mr. Logan has many visitors coming to his house every day. Just yesterday I turned down a girl named Stephanie who claimed to be Mr. Logan's girlfriend. I need some proof._"

Cyborg snapped to attention, his teeth grinding together again.

"What proof do you need? Why would I lie to you?"

"_I don't appreciate the tone you're getting. I need some verification."_

With an irritated huff, Cyborg snatched his hood and pulled it back, turning to the video camera and pointing to his face.

"Look! Look, alright! Does anyone else in this god-damn city look like this? Huh?"

"_If you continue shouting, I'll have security called_."

Cyborg was getting aggravated. _Very_ aggravated. By this point, Raven was already making her way into the mansion. She looked troubled. He yelled again, ignoring the box completely.

"Raven! Raven, over here!"

She didn't hear him and began walking up the steps.

"_Will you STOP yelling?" _The box hissed. _" I need you to get me some SOLID verification or else you're going to have security escorting you off the premises. And if you continue shouting like that I'll have you arrested regardless!"_

Cyborg gave the box one last glance, then watched as Raven stepped completely int the mansion. He bit his lip.

…_Screw it,_ Cyborg thought and took several steps back from the gate. The camera followed him, buzzing.

…_You used to do the high-jump when you were on the track team, right?,_ He mused, eyeing the ten foot iron gate.

The box realized what Cyborg was doing by the time he started running and instantly chirped up again. "_Don't even think about it, Mr. Cyborg! That is a violation of_-"

Cyborg pushed off when he was ten feet away from the gate, mechanically enhanced leg muscles nearly cracking the pavement as he lifted of the driveway. His torso cleared the top of the gate, both his hands gripping the Gothic style spikes along the top and heaving the rest of his weight over. Cyborg didn't particularly know _why_ he felt the need to clear Beast Boy's gate…but in all honesty, he didn't really care. Raven was his top priority. If that meant having to deal with a couple buzz-cut security guards then so be it.

He landed on the far side of the gate a moment later, landing rather roughly in a bed of red roses, sending a tuft of dirt and petals into the air. He rolled into a sitting position, avidly shaking a clod of fertilizer from his head.

_A little off center,_ Cyborg huffed, righting himself in a moment and taking two haphazardly steps out of the garden. He picked a smashed rose from his heel and continued running, leaving large muddy footprints all the way up the drive. With another grunt, Cyborg cleared a hedge, somehow landing in yet _another_ bed of flowers. By this point Dunbar had noticed Cyborg's approach and was silently watching with a slow, interested stare. He took two polite steps to the left as Cyborg hurried past, raising an eyebrow and almost smiling.

Cyborg gave him a quick wave, calling out, "Sorry 'bout the plants, Dunbar!" and continuing up the stairs. Dunbar simply nodded and took hold of the luggage again.

_What am I even going to say to her?_ He thought suddenly as he continued, taking the stairs three at a time. _Here I am covered in flowers, running up the stairs after her and I don't even have anything to say. It's been so long…_

He cleared the final step and headed for the front door, blowing past a bewildered Hex and reaching for the door. _Maybe I'll just start off with something simple. She's a friend after all. I don't need to think of what I'm going to say ahead of time. Thing's should just come naturally. I'll just say something basic like 'How's it been going' or 'It's been a while, hasn't it' or maybe just say-_

His foot caught on the welcome mat just as the door opened up wide. There, standing in the doorway, was Raven, her eyes focused down on the limo with one hand cupped over her mouth. "Adeline, don't forget to bring your bags up to-"

She stopped as her eyes fell on Cyborg who, now that he thought about it, was probably quite a sight; dressed in a baggy black hoodie with equally baggy jeans caked with smashed flowers and dirt stumbling haphazardly across the stoop.

Despite everything though…he felt his heart jump a beat at the sight of her. Raven was here again. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else at all.

Then he realized he was falling.

Forward.

Fast.

Before Cyborg could even change his goofy smiling expression, he collided with the empath at full throttle, carrying them both backwards onto an expensive decorative rug, their momentum sliding them a good four feet along the floor. The carpet wrinkled like an opening old-fashioned velvet curtain as they went making a satisfying '_scree_'ing noise against the polished marble floor.

As quickly as it began…it was over. When Cyborg finally got his bearings, he suddenly realized _where_ he was.

On _top_ of Raven…

His knees were firmly planted on either side of her hips, his arms lying extended like a scarecrow's. She was looking at him, wide eyed. Not knowing what else to do he could only stare back.

A moment passed.

"_Mmmmmf"_ She said.

He blinked.

"_Mmmmmf_" He replied.

Then…slowly…Cyborg realized where his _lips_ were. Then…slowly…realized why neither of them could talk very clearly.

His heart skipped a beat again….

Ending Author's Note: Ah! More intrigue! More sinister plots! As for Cyborg and Raven…well, yeah, I thought it was 'bout time our two Titans 'ran into' each other (no pun intended. Please don't kill me.) I'm sorry it's been so long since I've reviewed anyone else's work but I'm back and hopefully will make up for lost time.


	16. Chapter 16 Canon in D minor

Author's Note: To be honest, this is a chapter about Jinx. That's right. She _is_ an important character! Don't worry, I'll get back to Cyborg and Raven in the next chapter, along with Beast Boy, Barlavoni, and our mysterious Red! Enjoy!

If someone couldn't tell that _The Devil's Tongue_ was a bar that anybody _not_ looking for sex, drugs, or something more _dubious_ than either of the previous choices would happily enter…than Jinx would say that they were downright stupid. If the flickering neon lights, the graffiti covered walls, or plumes of white, milky smoke that came slithering out of the open doorway twenty four hours a day didn't tip you off...then the _name_ should at least.

_The Devil's Tongue_ was like a big, open Petri dish. Any bacteria that wormed its way in from the city were free to fester. There were no restrictions the customers had to follow, no dress code or rules of etiquette. Rules were that if you had money…you could stay.

Simple as that.

The bar itself was nestled up comfortably in between two equally unattractive buildings like a bad piece of spinach between two front teeth. The only cars on the surrounding streets were the parked ones with cracked windshields, all the street-signs were ones tilted over like scarecrows, and the streets were the ones littered with newspapers, burnt cigarettes, and homeless people.

Basically, the general landscape for the Slums of Jump City.

The only reason the bar had become so successful in such a desolate social wasteland like this was very simple; there was nothing else within a half a mile with flashing neon lights. _The Devil's Tongue_ was a place that was easy to remember, a place that'd stick in your head once you stepped through those husky sliding doors and into the hazy, purple interior.

The bar got by alright; but the cheap television, pool-table, and booze were only partly responsible. _The Devil's Tongue_ also included a basement crawling with sun-glass wearing drug dealers and an 'upstairs' where the bed-springs were ripe for the squealing.

The main attraction though, wasn't really in the bar at all. The real fly-paper was on the surrounding street corners where the red-light employees were free to roam; dressed up in fake fur coats, knee-high boots, and expensive curly wigs.

These…were Jinx's co-workers.

The red light district of Jump City was the melting pot for every whore west of Gotham. Whatever a man wanted, there was sure to be a girl somewhere around _The Devil's Tongue_ that would fill in the specifications Big girls, anorexic girls, pale girls, dark girls…and even Vinth the cross-dresser was available for those into that sort of thing and God knows there were.

Despite everything though…the girls were nice. _Very_ nice. A hell of a lot nicer than she'd first expected when society had left her at _The Devil's Tongue_ doorstep with a wallet full of expired coupons and a pair of busted shoes. It wasn't long after her first week on the job that Jinx realized that a lot of them were there for the same reason she was. Society didn't want them as a person with an ambition…so they've made it society wanted them a person with a _body_ for sale. It was a similarity that had luckily made it easy for her to make friends with all of them, which was a blessing considering who she _worked_ for.

To be honest, Jinx was on the lookout for friends nowadays.

That was probably why she hadn't been completely truthful to Cyborg.

She couldn't bring herself to tell the truth.

In all honesty, her relationship with Kid Flash had ended a bit more…_disastrously _ than she'd admitted.

More disastrously…and _so_ much more hurtful.

She could remember it now.

_The door to the apartment opened._

'_Jinx?'_

_She'd glanced up from the floor. Red nosed. Glazed eyes. Chin wet. _

'_Oh…Flash…I…I'm…'_

_He shut the door, came over towards her. 'Are you okay? What happened?'_

'…_I'm…so sorry, Flash…sob I really didn't mean to!'_

'_Jinx, what the hell is going on? What __**happened**__ to you?'_

'_I didn't wanna! Honest! I tried to stop but I can't help it! It feels too __**good**__! It makes me so __**itchy**__! I…I…just couldn't help it!'_

_His eyes slowly glanced down and saw._

'…_Oh Jinx…not again…you said you were __**over**__ it. We spent all that money on support groups. On classes to help you get __**better**__…'_

_She crawled over to him, tugging on his pant-leg._

'_I'm sorry, Flash! I'm…so __**so**__ sorry! sniff I just…just can't help it! It __**hurts**__ if I don't do it! It hurts me so __**bad**__! Please forgive me, please try and forgive me! I'm beggin' you! This is the last time! I promise! I'm almost there!'_

'_Jinx…just how supportive do you think I've been ? How __**fair**__ I've been to you? How __**supportive**__?'_

'_I'm sorry! I'm so __**sorry**__, Flash; it'll never happen again! This was the last time! I promise! I swear!'_

_His hands grabbed her collar._

'_Do you realize how __**embarrassing**__ it'd be if you were seen by the paparazzi, Jinx? Just look at you for Christ's sake! Do you know how much __**esteem**__ we're held in right now by the city? The publicity we're part of? Do you know what would happen if they knew about you? You're little, fuckin' 'habit'? Possession is illegal, Jinx. You could get locked up!'_

_She was pulled roughly to her knees._

'_**I**__ could get locked up too!'_

'_Flash, you're hurting me!'_

_His grip tightened._

'_Who'd you get it from?'_

'_Flash, stop, I'm scared!'_

_He'd shaken her roughly, his eyes wild and blue._

'_Who the hell is giving you these? Huh? The same guy from last time Jinx? You goin' back to the same guy using __**my**__ money? Are yah? Buyin' your stash from what __**I**__ earn? I've had it with you, Jinx! I've been willing to come home to the same doped up embarrassment for the past two years! You just don't change! You're a bum, Jinx!'_

'_Don't say that…don't say that, Flashie…'_

'_A fuckin' waste!'_

"_**Please,**__ don't say that…I'm beggin' you! It was an accident!"_

'_A filthy crackwhore!'_

That's when she'd hit him. And he hit back.

Sufficed to say…things escalated.

Super-powers were used.

Property was damaged

Law enforcement officers were notified.

Illegal possessions…were discovered.

The paparazzi got involved.

And…things went downhill from there. For _one_ of them anyway.

Kid-Flash had money, an alibi, and a fan-club. He was loved by the public, endorsed magazines and even still took time out of his day job to give Flash senior a run for his money in the crime fighting business. Jinx on the other hand…had stayed at home a lot recently ever since she'd gotten involved with some rather _dubious_ old acquaintances and an even more _dubious_ addiction. She was wasted, high, itchy and _very_ short tempered when the police finally arrived.

Sufficed to say when the shit hit the fan, it wasn't Kid-Flash who was standing on the far side of it.

Jinx fell from grace faster than she was punted onto the streets by society with Kid-Flash being congratulated for shedding the dead-weight.

Oh yeah, she didn't get over that addiction either, and an unnecessarily large chunk of her paycheck was continually being fed the greasy haired peddler in the fake pin-stripe suit who hung under the overpass at midnight.

What a shitty world this was.

With a weary sigh, Jinx stepped over a drunk who'd been nestling in the garbage bags at the front of the bar for the past few weeks. He had a hat pulled down low over his puffy, red face and an empty bottle of liquor in his hand which smelt of corn and sugar. He looked dead.

"Hello, Charley." She stated flatly, tugging her purse further up on her arm and stepping over his legs.

Charley mumbled something and absently waved back.

Jinx maneuvered her way past two men as the exited, tossing two beer cans and a cigarette onto the walk amongst a dozen others. She recognized them by their clothes in an instant. In a town such as this, people were too cheap to keep more than one pair of clothes anyway.

Jinx turned her full attention to them as they meandered down the walk. It was them alright; Mr. Red Leather Jacket and Mr. Dirty Wife-Beater. Mr. Red Leather Jacket worked in a lower key club on the other side of the Slums. Just another nameless joint where a man could get his hands on whatever he wanted so long as a few important presidents accompanied him in his wallet. Mr. Dirty Wife-Beater was his muscle man to avoid anyone lacking a red leather jacket getting jealous whenever he came to town, however, the two usually didn't wonder over to _The Devil's Tongue_ unless something was amiss. The last time these two showed up was to give a warming to the owner of the bar because of a leaked police crackdown. The time before that was deliver a warning that a real heavy-hitter was in town. Jinx never got the scoops on it but whenever Mr. Red Leather Jacket came for a visit, it meant that something was up.

One thing was for sure though, Jinx had been seeing a lot more of Mr. Red Leather Jacket since Barlavoni had taken control of the police force. He'd busted drug deals, he'd wasted mobsters, and had stuck his nose deeper into the shit-pile of the Slums of Jump City farther than any other police chief in the city's history. He'd brought the scum of the Slums closer together. Now everyone had each other's backs. Roaches protected roaches from the heel of Barlavoni's boot.

…And a great deal of it was because he had himself a spy in their nest.

It's never glamorous being the mole for the cat when you're living amongst rats but once you get an addiction like Jinx's…well…you begin to stop caring about who's the one giving you the money.

Honor amongst thieves be damned.

Whatever Mr. Red Leather Jacket was here for…she'd probably tipped Barlavoni off about it…and she didn't care.

Jinx kept her eyes on the two of them until they disappeared around the corner before turning and walking in through the bar and into the interior.

The inside of _The Devil's Tongue,_ Jinx had decided, was very much like a big, dirty quilt. There were patches of hundreds of other bars and restaurants scattered around. Some of the silverware was from the McDonald's of the interior city, the television was stolen from an apartment next door, and the lamps were as diverse as the selection you might find while visiting the 'Light Fixture' isle of a run down Home Depot. There were lawn chairs next to recliners, wine glasses next to purple plastic cups, and an old moose-head hanging over the door next to a signed picture of Elvis Presley and an old fashioned toboggan eaten over with rust.

Several torn, open stools stood in a row across a chapped, wooden counter where Tony 'Jazz' Russo, the barkeep/waiter/bouncer/clean-up man stood cleaning a glass and watching the sports score on the hissing, grainy television. Several regulars were seated on their usual stools in their assumed order…as usual, and from upstairs, Jinx could hear the bedsprings and shouts of what must have been one helluva happy customer getting his money's worth. Again…as usual.

Jinx went up to the counter, seating herself on a stool, crossing her arms on the counter. The men sitting next to her all glimpsed over in unison. The barkeep as well.

"Hello Jazz." She said.

The tall, meaty but built man smiled back at Jinx through a mouth full of yellow and red teeth. His left eye was blackened out and a band-aid bridged across his nose. Jazz was deeply Italian; proud, hairy, slow, and puffy with a gym inflated muscle. His face looked like it was chiseled from a rock; not exactly the most attractive, but definitely hard to break.

Strangely enough though, Jazz looked like one of those types of guy who secretly dreamed of being something he's _not_…and probably had no hopes of becoming.

In _his_ case, like most Italians in this part of town, Jazz always wanted to be a chef.

Instead of naked women, the calendar hanging in the back of his booth had a smiling, moustache sporting chef on it in the full white get-up and everything, holding a steaming dish and giving a big thumbs up.

_So, yah think you can cook like Chef Tony?_

Jazz sometimes wore the chef's hat himself and sometimes could be found hiding out in the kitchen working on some failed experiment. Mostly though, Jazz expressed his deep-seated desire by avidly reading a cook-book in his spare time…despite the fact that Jinx vaguely recalled someone saying he never learned how to read in the first place.

The man glanced up from the counter, greeting her the same way he had for the past four years with a thick, rich Brooklyn accent.

"Heya Jinxie, you working today?"

"I'm always working." She said, thrumming her fingers on the counter. "Otherwise I wouldn't be in here."

Jazz smiled and leaned towards her from the other side of the counter. "Are you sure?" He winked before ducking below the counter to fetch a drink. Jinx rolled her eyes, tonguing her cheek.

Everyone and their sister who worked in _The Devil's Tongue_ knew that Jazz had something for her. He'd bought her services for one night and decided to take the experience personally rather than just admitting to the fact that Jinx was a _really_ good actress. It was pretty harmless, really. If anything, he gave her a nice, big, intimidating shadow that convinced all her clients to 'play nice'. About a year ago, some guy with a Mohawk and a gold tooth roughed her up pretty good after a game of 'role-playing' went bad. Jazz eventually got wind of it and tracked the guy down to his apartment, giving him four new locations for more gold teeth and a trip to the hospital. Ever since then, every one of her clients had held the door open for her on her way out with a generous tip in their hands.

Jazz swiped a hand under the counter and brought up a drink. He had his cheek turned to her, prominently displaying the swollen, purple bruises along his cheek and jaw. If there was one thing Jazz was proud of, it was his fights. He took them the same way anyone with a moral sense of ethics would take a fishing trip and bringing back bruises instead of fish with some good ol' stories that goes along with 'em.

Jinx waited until her drink was poured before biting. "So…" She said with her half-lidded eyes. "What happened to your face this time, Jazz?"

Jazz laughed, crouching behind the counter and rattling some glasses. "Got into a scrap with the Marling twins over a bet I'd won a coupla' weeks ago."

"You're kidding," Jinx said, not having cared less. "After what happened to you last time?"

"Yeah, well, here's how it went down. Picture this…" Jazz took two steps away from the counter, slinging his cleaning cloth over his shoulders. Jinx sighed, but allowed herself to smile. It was almost cute to watch an adult man describing a fight with as much zeal as a fisherman.

_This big! I'm telling you that fish was this big!_

"So I comes walking out of the bank, right? It was getting pretty late too, I figured 'round one something. So I heads back to my car to find the windshield got busted all to hell. I mean someone had at it with a fuckin' _baseball_ bat. The tail lights were both knocked out and the air had been let out _all_ my tires. I'm just about to go trollin' around lookin' for some sonofabitch lugging a baseball bat around when all of sudden, guess who pulls up next to me in a shiny new set of wheels and carrying a bat?"

Jinx took a casual sip from her drink, her voice flat "The Marling Twins?"

Jazz clapped his hands, grinning. "Those douchebag Marlings. They see me and stick their heads out the windows, start taunting me and shit over that bet I won. Well, you know me, I don't take shit from _nobody_, so I's walk over to their car and rattle their hood, yelling at them to come out and fight instead of bustin' up my ride when I'm getting some quarter rolls. You know, all that."

"Sounds a lot like what happened last time."

"Yeah well, last time they had a bat."

"Didn't you say they had a bat this time?"

"True, but I was ready this time. Hit me _once_ with a bat, shame on _you_. Hit me _twice_ with a-"

"I _got_ it, Jazz. What happened next?"

"Well, the bigger Marling brother gets out first, his eye still black from the last time we scuffed and he's still pretty pissed, course he is though, he's a _Marling_. Anyway, he slams the door and says he wants his money back or _else_. So you know what I do? I walk right up to his puffy-ass face and laugh at him, saying that I gave it to his mother last night and he could get it from _her_. Pretty good, huh?"

"Pre-e-e-ety creative there, Jazz." Jinx said, taking another sip and glancing back through the bar, looking for another set of expensive clothes. The ones that belonged to her boss. All the girls needed to check in with him when their shifts ended. Jinx's ended twenty minutes ago.

Jazz continued, grinning. "Yeah well, that got him nice and pissed off so he started swinging at me, right?" He stopped to demonstrate with his hands. "He comes in with this gigantic left hook like he did last time. A big hit like that would've snuffed me out like a candle, but get this, I duck under and swipe-kick his legs out like, I'm not kidding here, Jackie Chan would have! I actually kung-fued his ass and…"

Jinx finally found him, seated towards the back and talking with a nameless, long haired dealer. He looked nervous. Maybe it had something to do with Mr. Red Leather Coat. She glanced back to Jazz who was now windmilling his arms and laughing, saying something about a crotch shot and Chuck Norris. She cleared her throat and leaned in.

"Jazz?"

He stopped, blinked, and looked at her. "Uhm…yeah?"

"I couldn't help but notice that we had some unusual company here not too long ago."

There was another painfully loud moan from overhead followed by an equally impressive screech from the bed springs and a thin shower of plaster fell from the ceiling. Jazz glanced up and shook his head. "Yeah. That's Mr. Starling again. He's rented out the Wonder Twins, Marleen and Sharleen again. Don't know what the hell he does to those girls but they all come out with sore hips."

"Jazz, that's disgusting."

He visibly blushed beneath the bruises on his face. "Sorry. Didn't think you'd mind."

Jinx shook her head and leaned in. "I'm not talking about Starling. I'm talking about the guy who came in about two minutes ago wearing a really nice red jacket. Had some muscle in a wife-beater following him around."

Jazz huffed, sweeping the plaster off the counter. "That's Mr. Percival. He runs a joint on the other side of-"

"What was he doing here?"

Again, Jazz blushed, only now, Jinx didn't know why. "He came over to talk to Mr. Shakespeare about something. I overheard some of it. Sounded heavy."

She leaned in further. "Any details?"

"Not much." He said. "All I know is that a couple of his girls and customers have disappeared recently. Gone. Without a trace. Sound familiar?"

Jinx's head slowly lifted. "Crystal…"

"Yep. And Mr. Percival's girls vanished 'round the same time Crystal did. A couple days apart from each other to be exact."

"Were they strippers too?"

"Yep. And one was a red-head. Just like Crystal was."

"That's…scary, Jazz."

"That's not all that's scary. I also overheard Mr. Percival mention something about some _sightings_. Sightings of a new guy in town. Nobody knows who he is, where he comes from, or even what he looks like."

Something prickled the back of Jinx's neck. This was what Barlavoni had been talking about. This was the _killer_. A real, genuine _killer_ like the ones the detectives on her late night movies hunted down. The ones with recognizable killing traits, unique deformities, and haunted childhoods full of abuse and terror.

God, she got the shivers just to think that she was _involved_ with one. It was just like the movies!

_The killer could be anyone. Someone you might expect the least. You're never safe…_

Jinx shook this off with another drink as there was another defining _THUMP_ from upstairs and another shower of plaster hissed down form the ceiling. She looked at Jazz seriously, almost sternly.

"Jazz." She said. "I need you to tell me everything you know about this."

Slowly, his large, sweaty brow furrowed and his hands made their way quizzically to his hips. "Why are you so curious all of the sudden? This is strictly 'boss's business'. You don't need to get worried about it."

Jinx answered, unfazed and unafraid. "It does _involve_ me, Jazz." She said, grabbing his arm and pouting.

_That_ really got his attention.

"One of the girls is _missing_. There might be a killer on the loose! I want to feel safe! I want to know where these sightings are!" She leaned in closer, eyes wide. "Please. For me, Jazzie. Make me feel safe."

_I'd like to thank the Academy…_

Jazz softened, taking her hand and grinning that mouthful of yellow and red. "Hey, hey, hey…" He said in the softest, romantic voice he could muster. "Don't be afraid, Jinxie. I promise I won't let anyone hurt you. They said that he was only sighted far, _far_ downtown in the oldest part of the city. Far away from here."

Jinx returned his gaze, eyes still wide and frail. "Where downtown? Oh, where did they see him?"

A couple of the customers sitting along the bar huffed, some of them muttering things along the lines of 'softy' and 'wuss' as Jazz leaned forward and shooshed her with a finger to her lips.

There was Jazz for yah. Always on the lookout for the romantic cliché.

"Don't worry." He cooed. "It's all the way in the part of town that isn't even used anymore. Abandoned buildings. Old warehouses. Stuff like that." He lifted her chin up. "It's probably nothing at all. A false call. A Red Herring."

Jinx smiled. _Abandoned part of downtown, empty buildings, old warehouses…got it. Barlavoni better pay me in spades for this._

"Aww, thanks Jazz." She said, sliding away from the counter. "I always feel safer knowing I have you looking out for me."

Jazz made a goofy face and looked away, got an idea, then looked back. "Hey." He grinned. "Why don't you come over to my place and I cook us both up something from my new cookbook?" Jazz paused, glanced in either direction, and leaned farther in. "We can also make it _unofficial_. You and me both of duty. What'd yah say?"

Jinx got up from her stool, finishing her drink and tossing two dollars onto the counter. "Thanks." She said. "But I'm going to have to pass you up on that, Jazz. I'm working a double shift since Crystal's gone. Maybe another time."

Jazz let his head hang, both hands pressed against the counter. "Well, what if it _was_ official?"

Jinx raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms. Jazz took one look at her expression and caught himself, backing away from the counter and raising his hands. "But that doesn't mean we have to '_do'_ it, you know. We'll still have that nice dinner. Nothing more."

She sighed, shaking her head. "You know I'll _still_ have to charge you just like everyone else, Jazz. It'd almost make me feel better if you _did_ get your money's worth. Like last time, remember? It'll be fine."

He shook his head. Persistent. No changing _his_ mind on this matter. "Nope, nope, nope. I _insist_, Jinxie. We're gonna have a nice regular dinner whether you like it or not. Even if I have to buy every second of it from Mr. Shakespeare myself."

Jinx let it go at that. No point in changing an Italian's mind about love and food. She just shrugged.

"Fine. I'll see if I can find the time."

She turned to go, but not before giving one last flirty glance over her shoulder. She didn't need to stoke the fires any more, but damn it, sometimes it was so hard not to be flirty when the opportunity called for it. "Just be sure to cooks something _good_."

Jazz clapped his hands and spun around. "Baby, you _won't_ regret it. I'll whip up something so electrifying, your mouth will be singing for weeks!"

Jinx smiled and walked off through the bar.

She still had one more flaming hoop to jump through. A flaming hoop belonging to a man named Mr. Shakespeare.

Mr. Shakespeare was the owner of _The Devil's Tongue_ and her pay check. he was a suave but harsh man. It didn't take much for him to be nice to you…and it certainly didn't take a lot for him to have you taken out back with Jazz beating the bejesus out of you with brass knuckles and a smile.

If he liked you, you quickly found yourself weaving your way around his thumb to make sure he _kept_ on liking you.

His favorite food became _your_ favorite food. _His_ favorite sports team became _your_ favorite sports team. His likes became _your_ likes...and if there was one thing Mr. Shakespeare was absolutely in love with…it was his name.

Therefore…_everyone _in _The Devil's Tongue_ had a new favorite playwright.

There once was a guy named Donald with a knuckle full of expensive rings who had the grapes to point fingers at Mr. Shakespeare's name and laugh.

Now…there is no longer a guy named Donald, Mr. Shakespeare suddenly became the owner of some very expensive rings and nobody points fingers.

As stated previously…_everyone_ in _The Devil's Tongue_ now had a favorite playwright.

Jinx approached his table humbly, her head down, her knees touching. Mr. Shakespeare was seated as his usual booth, a multicolored and expensive looking stain-glass lamp swinging overhead. It reflected off his greased black hair just like it was a scalp, his eyes hidden behind a pair of expensive, oval shades.

On the table in front of him…were newspapers. A lot of them.

One of his men nudged his shoulder as Jinx approached. He glimpsed up and immediately grinned, sweeping the papers onto the floor.

"Ah." He said, casually checking his watch. "Why doth my pretty feline stalk to my table at such a late hour? The bell tower has already hence struck thrice and your sisters have all checked in." He grinned, removing his glasses with a small flourish. "Methinks one has not quite yet learned to sway under the call of her master nay the pull of his leash."

Oh yeah, one more thing; sometimes when Mr. Shakespeare felt like it, he spoke like his name implied. God knew that he wasn't really good at it (he'd never read any actual plays himself), but he WAS Mr. Shakespeare and what Mr. Shakespeare said _went_. If you wanted proof, just go around and ask if anyone had ever heard of a guy named Donald.

Jinx hissed a sigh through her nose and sat down across from her boss and catching a glimpse of the clock overhead.

Yeah, she was late alright. She'd taken the _long_ way to work. Her official 'Check In' time had been over twenty minutes ago. Now she had to deal with Act II, Scene 4 of Shakespeare's _Reprimand and Juliet_ with front row seats again.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Shakespeare." She said. "I was held up by an old friend. I'll put in extra hours. Just don't compare me to a Summer's Day, will yah?"

Mr. Shakespeare thoughtfully scratched his chin. "Apprehended by an acquaintance long since forgotten in the tide of times? Is this thou most modest pardon? Surely has no other fate befallen you to add weight upon your absence?"

Jinx glanced down at the crumpled newspapers on the floor. A lot of them had been flipped to the obituaries. Shakespeare was looking for Crystal.

…or whatever they found left of her.

"He was an old friend." Jinx continued, glancing back up. "I hadn't seen him in quite some time. We just had a little chat."

Jinx was being honest…but she could afford to. She was Mr. Shakespeare's most prized possession and she knew it. No way in hell he was going to hurt her. She was just too damn _good_ at her job.

Strangely…Jinx didn't really feel good about that fact at all.

Mr. Shakespeare took this in, and gave a long, shrugging sigh. He ditched the accent, picked up a drink, frowning. He apparently wasn't in the 'Shakespeare' mood today...which was strange considering Jinx had seen him go on for two days straight with nearly all his words ending in '_eth'_.

Something really _was_ bothering him.

"Well." He said in his dry, smoky voice. "I wanted to make sure you were safe in any case. A good friend of mine stopped in today and said that things are getting a little rough around here lately. I want all my girls to be safe; you especially. I hope you know that I hold you in very high esteem."

_Whoopty shit, you greasy fart._

"Why, Mr. Shakespeare…I'm flattered."

"I'm taking some girls off the streets. I can't afford to lose any more right now. Not after that bastard Barlavoni pulled the strings on one of our deals last month..." His voice dropped several levels. "I just wish I knew how he fuckin' _knew_…"

Jinx rocked in her seat slightly.

_Mr. Barlavoni?_

_Yes, Jinx?_

_Do you know many of the works of Shakespeare?_

_The playwright? Not really. Why?_

_Well, there's a Shakespeare I have in mind who's work might appeal to you quite a bit.. Check this out…_

Mr. Shakespeare sighed and stood up. "I want you to get Jazz's number on speed-dial. Don't go out anywhere that isn't safe. Got it?"

"Of course, Mr. Shakespeare…but can I ask _why_?"

He leaned forward in his seat, his voice soft but decided. "No you may not."

Jinx thrummed her hands on her thigh, raising a brow. "Have you found Crystal yet?"

Mr. Shakespeare glanced up, his face clearly unhappy. The ice was getting pretty thin pretty quickly. She wisely backed down. Get up and get out was probably her best policy as of right now.

"Forget I said that." She said, getting up from the booth. "I'll be going."

Shakespeare stood up with her. "Jinx."

_Damn it._

"Yes?"

He took a step closer, standing a good six inches taller than Jinx herself. She quickly found herself staring into his clean-shaven chin, smelling of sweat and aftershave.

He took her shoulders.

"Do _not_ do anything stupid."

She glanced up. _Quite the reputation I've built up around here._

"I won't, Mr. Shakespeare. You know where to reach me…and so does Jazz."

Mr. Shakespeare removed a golden envelope from his jacket and waved it in front of her. "I meant with your paycheck." He grinned and pushed it noticeably between her breasts. "I couldn't help but notice your nose again today. You _should_ be spending your money on clothes like a practical girl…not on the shit we peddle 'round here. Didn't you go to school? Those things bad for you."

Jinx grinned and pocketed the envelop. "I _did_ go to a school." She said. "And trust me. I learned many things there."

Mr. Shakespeare huffed and ruffled her hair, leaning back up. "I'm sure, Jinx. Now get out of here."

Jinx did a little courtesy and turned to go just as one of Mr. Shakespeare's men leaned in and whispered something in his ear. She had just reached the door and was half-way out when she heard him bellow out again.

"Not _another_!"

The door shut.

Ending Author's Note: Well, there you have it. I know I'm throwing a lot of new characters out there, but I won't have this fic completely befuddled by new characters. Unless…you LIKE Jazz and Mr. Shakespeare and would like to see more of either of them. The only way I can find out is if you tell me so! Until next time, my friends!


	17. Chapter 17 Brahms Double Concerto

Author's Note: I've started school back up again and have consequently taken a longer than necessary break from on-line escapades and late night writing episodes. Now that I'm settled in, I'm back into routine and that means chapters will be written, stories will be reviewed, and recipes will be exchanged. A tip of the hat and a special thanks to my reviewers, you all are really great motivators! So, without further ado…here's the next chapter and its back with Cyborg and Raven. Enjoy!

_**xXxXxXxXxXxXxXx**_

…

…

…

…

_Cy...do you realize where you are right now?_

_Uhm…where?_

_You're on top of Raven._

_Huh?_

_Yep. On Raven. Kissing her._

…_Really?_

_Yeah. _

…_Awww, you're just pullin' my leg._

_No. Seriously. Open your eyes._

He did.

Raven stared back at him.

Blinking those big glassy eyes.

Lying on a marble floor.

Her hair spread around her head like a violet sunrise.

Her lips…preoccupied.

She looked dazed.

Cyborg blinked back, tried to say something…but realized that _his_ lips were preoccupied too.

It was awkward.

It was clumsy.

And above all, it was…

…_rather warm, actually._

Very slowly, Raven got her bearings, took a good look at him… and flushed a deep shade of red, raising her shoulders slowly towards her ears and letting out a very surprised and very muffled _'Thnyborg???'_

Cyborg just stared back, the realization that his lips were grafted to the girl he'd admired for eleven years not quite getting' realized.

Instead, he felt strangely...befuddled. Perplexed.

He was _kissing_ Raven.

Really. Right now.

Kissing like they did in the movies…

But how?

How the hell was he actually _kissing_ Raven? By _falling_ on her? That never happened!

Not in _real_ life!

Bad romance novels _maybe_.

Old Clark Gable movies _possibly_.

Those silly, summer-afternoon 'What-If' scenarios he cooked in front of the late night TV or in the shadow of an old oak tree in the park..._probably_.

All those places. Not here.

He just wasn't _lucky_ enough for something like this to happen.

Proven fact.

Cyborg's personal luck meter would never allow a luxury like this to slip into his life.

…

…

Well…maybe. There was always a chance.

Maybe.

Perhaps.

Just this once.

Just a little something to satisfy the universe's need for some good old romantic cliché. Something to concrete those wily '_Hey, It Could Happen'_ thoughts that people thought up with half-lidded eyes and secretive smiles.

Maybe. But he'd have to make sure.

To check…_really_ check…Cyborg glanced down between them…

…and felt himself deflate.

He…was _not_ kissing Raven right now.

Not even close, really.

His mouth had hit her _chin_. And then _dragged._

His bottom lip had streaked up her face like a kid down a dry slip-n-slide, rolling his bottom lip _out_ and her bottom lip _up_. After his mouth had been pulled down into a puppy-eyed pout, it had finally come to rest on Raven's nose.

Their surprised short breaths roamed into each other's faces as their hands clamored to right themselves.

No doubt about it…he _wasn't_ kissing Raven right now.

He had used her face as a _brake_, leaving a skid mark of saliva and _mouth_ in its wake.

So much for the universe's need for the romantic cliché……..

"Welcome to the premise, Mr. Stone." Dunbar said casually, strolling by and dragging several suitcases with him. "I took the liberty of having a room prepared for you. I'll just wait until you're ready to detach yourself."

As soon as he passed, Cyborg lurched off Raven with a humorous, wet _smack_. He landed on his bottom, pushing himself back on hands and kicking feet, shaking his head like a man recovering from one hell of a bitch slap.

"Raven!" He managed to gasp. "Raven…I am _so_ sorry!"

Raven shot up into a sitting position, her face taught and unexpressive. She blinked twice, cleared her throat, and dragged a sleeve politely across her face. By now her blush had become quite apparent, creeping up her entire face like a thermometer on a hot summer day.

She swallowed, cleared her throat again and glanced up at Cyborg with the pert, polite expression of someone who didn't know what the hell to say.

Finally, she managed a quiet, "That's…alright.", and sorely rubbed her chin with her palm.

Cyborg ran over, grabbing her by the wrists and pulling her right to her feet. His eyes were wide and goofy. "Are you okay? I didn't mean to run into you like that! I was walking here. I saw you. I tried to call…I didn't know you were coming over so soon! I…got carried away."

She swallowed, nodded, and patted him absently on the shoulder, her eyebrows still up and her blush still apparent. She didn't look into his eyes. "That's okay, Cyborg. Really. I'm fine."

"Are you sure? I ran into you pretty good there."

Another pat, another nod. She took two steps back pushed a strand of hair out of her face, finally meeting Cyborg's gaze and smiling weakly. "Yes. You did."

He took her hands absentmindedly, leaning in. "As long as you're okay. I really-"

The door re-opened.

"Mr. _Stone_?"

"Uncle _Cyborg_?"

Both of them turned, still hand in hand.

To their left, a very surprised and equally flabbergasted Hex filled the doorway; his tie swinging in the breeze, his hands tightly gripping the doorframe. His eyes were glued to their joined hands with an expression Cyborg could only describe as…distressed.

Between his legs, also grabbing the doorframe and also avidly admiring their joined hands was little Adeline, only her expression wasn't distressed at all. It was the equivalent of a kid meandering downstairs on Christmas.

And…

From beyond, sitting in a chair with one leg slung lazily over the other and a very dog-eared paperback settled in his hands was Dunbar; patiently waiting and completely oblivious to the entire situation.

Cyborg and Raven glanced back to each other, then down at their joined hands…and quickly dropped them behind their backs; both unanimously clearing their throats and averting gazes.

"Uncle Cyborg! You're here!" Adeline ducked between Hex's legs and dashed over. Cyborg had just enough time to widen his arms before Adeline jumped into them, wrapping both arms around his neck and laughing.

"Adeline!" Cyborg laughed back, taking two steps back wrapping his own arms around her. "My God, it's so good to _see_ you! Look how _big _you've gotten! Here, let me have a good look at you!"

He untangled her arms from his neck and pulled away for a moment, giving the giggling girl a good once over. "Christ." He said, shaking his head. "…You've grown up so _much_ since the last time I say you! You're growing your hair out, you've gotten so much _taller_, and….." He pinched her cheeks. "……and what are _these_ all over your face?"

Adeline giggled and batted his hand away. "They're _freckles_, Uncle Cyborg. Everybody has them."

"Freckles? Where did you get freckles?"

"From her father." Raven said, walking up and smiling, her blush faded. She was in mother-mode now. "She's got a lot of things from her father."

Cyborg returned the smile and gently lowered Adeline to the ground. She tugged on his arm, pulling him back down. "Uncle Cyborg…" Adeline asked, her eyes wide and hopeful. "I overheard Mommy saying that you were staying here. With us. Is that true?"

Cyborg crouched down in front of her and gently flicked her nose. "You bet I am, Addie. Uncle Cyborg's gonna be staying here for your entire visit. It'll be just like good ol' times, right? You, me, Mommy, and Uncle Beast Boy."

Adeline nodded, only her eyes had drifted to the side. "Well…why didn't we come over to _your_ house? Is something…wrong?"

Cyborg glanced up at Raven, cleared his throat, and glanced down to Adeline again.

So they _didn't_ know…….

"Well, ol' Uncle Cyborg's house is undergoing repairs at the moment. Nothing serious. I'm just living with Uncle Beast Boy until it's repaired."

Adeline nodded slowly nodded her head with a long, thoughtful 'Oooooooh'.

"Alright." She said. "As long as it's nothing serious. It's just that Mommy's has had, well…_that_ look for five days now and I wanted to make sure nothing…_bad_ had happened."

Cyborg glanced up at Raven and raised a wry brow. "_That_ look?"

The dark girl huffed and rolled her eyes. "Long story."

Adeline piped in. "She only gets that look when something bad is about to happen. She got one a coupla days before we were going to visit you. That's why we came by earlier. We were afraid you were in _trouble_."

At this, Cyborg's brow slowly furrowed, again he glanced up at Raven only this time, his expression wasn't furtive. It was concerned. Cyborg had seen what happened in the aftermath of one of Raven's _bad_ feelings. Bad vibes coming from Raven was a weather forecast that was never wrong and never predicting sunny weather.

_What did happen to your apartment? What happened to the guy who used to have Hex's job? Whose does everyone think has done it?_

"Uncle Cyborg?" Adeline shook him. "Are you okay?"

Cyborg snapped to, finding Adeline's eyes and smiling for them. "Yeah, I'm fine. I'm fine." He chewed on his tongue for a minute, and then patted her on the shoulder. "Listen, Addie, why don't you get Dunbar to show you to your room so you can get all settled in? Your mother and I would like to talk."

Raven leaned in. "Adult talk. No peeking."

Adeline tilted her head, eyes subtly full of hopeful gleaming. "Are you two gonna kiss again?"

Cyborg laughed, then cast a quick glance to Raven to make sure she was at least grinning as well.

She was.

"Sorry kiddo, but no." Cyborg said, glancing back at Adeline and rustling her hair. "And that wasn't a kiss. It was an accidental _bump_. Adults are allowed to have those every once in a while."

Adeline gave a disappointed "Oh." and stood up, walking over towards Dunbar who sighed, snapped shut his book, and grabbed her luggage. They ascended the stairs, Adeline giving one last call from over her shoulder. "Be sure to help me unpack, Uncle Cyborg! I have some books I wanna show you!"

Hex watched the two go, then glanced back at Raven and Cyborg with a nervous, wincing smile. "I'll…go get the rest of your luggage then. When I get back…I guess I'll show you around the place…since you both haven't been here before and all that. If you want I could..."

He glanced over at Cyborg, blushing.

"…see if there is anything that I can use to help…y'know, _juice_ you up."

A moment passed.

Hex blinked.

Raven and Cyborg exchanged quick glances.

From the top of the stairs, the footsteps halted just long enough for the three to hear a tired, deliberate "_Queer_…" from Dunbar. Then the footfalls continued, nearly drowning out an inquiring, "What's a queer?" from Adeline.

Another pause, then Hex realized what he'd said and hurriedly corrected himself. "I meant for you to _recharge_. Your stuff was…in your apartment. I didn't mean that…for me to…Oh, don't take it like-"

He paused.

Once again Raven and Cyborg exchanged quick glances.

He sighed.

"I'll go get that luggage."

The door shut.

And quite suddenly...they were alone again.

The clocked ticked.

The floor creaked.

From another room, the evening news could be heard.

Cyborg finally shook his head and grinned, scratching the back of his head. "Well." This wasn't exactly what I had in mind. For meeting you that is. I really didn't mean to…run into you like that. How's your…face?"

Raven smiled and rubbed her chin. "It's alright. Broken maybe, but we definitely gave Dagwood and Mr. Beasley a real run for their money."

Cyborg glanced at the floor, then to the kitchen, then to Raven again. "Do you want me to get you some ice or anything for that? The kitchen is right over there-"

"It's fine Cyborg."

"Are you sure? I feel really bad about-"

"You said the kitchen's over there?"

"I…I think. I can sorta see the stove from-"

Raven smiled and picked one of her suitcases with that same, skeptical half-smile that had so defined her lovably jaundiced eye she had during her years under a blue hood. Taking everything in stride with that all knowing smirk. Good ol' Raven.

"Tell you what." She said. "Let's both head over there, sit down at the table, get some drinks, and start over. Sound acceptable?"

Cyborg measured up Raven's expression and let his shoulders ease back. "Yeah." He finally said, smiling. "That sounds fantastic."

_Glad at least one of us can still come up with ideas. _He thought grimly as Raven turned. _Maybe now we will finally be able to have a nice, sit-down conversation and catch up. Maybe. If there's a God in heaven..._

_xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx_

Twenty minutes later…Cyborg wasn't smiling.

…_Guess there isn't._

It should have taken about five minutes for the two of them to completely ease into each other's company buy his calculations.

Ten just to be safe.

After all, how hard could it be, right? The two of them had been friends, companions…and, _hopefully_, something a little deeper than that. They'd shared drinks. They'd read books together. They'd tried out each other's hobbies…

And yet.

Somehow.

They both were just sitting there. The conversation was exactly as Cyborg feared it would be.

Awkward.

Unsure.

Alien.

A conversation between acquaintances at a high-school reunion with entirely separate lives floating between them.

Now that Cyborg was sitting across from Raven, he could see how expensive her jewelry was. Modest…but definitely not something in the budget of a cubicle dwelling calculator like himself. Her clothes balanced and uniquely French, her shoes shiny and tied, her hair unbound and free…in other words, she looked exactly as how Cyborg expected a rich writer to look like. Subtle and smart. Heightened to a different social status by a couple hundred thousand dollars and a couple successful books.

She lived a different life.

A _successful_ one.

And now…she was stuck talking to a bum like him. It was like something celebrities did for charity.

The fact that Beast Boy's cupboards were lined with family portraits of assorted fancy alcohols and expensive liquors didn't help ease the atmosphere either. Raven didn't drink…and Cyborg didn't _want_ Raven to know that he drank alcohol. The two of them finally settled for two waters and sat at opposite ends of an eighteen foot long dining table with the distracting sports scores of the latest ball game still droning from the next room.

They sat.

They stared.

And a large, polished grand-father clock clicked eagerly in the corner, ticking and tocking like a impatient heckler at a movie theatre.

_Tick._

_Tock._

_Tick._

_SAY SOMETHING!_

_Tock._

Lord knows they tried. Eventually they _had_ managed to spark up a meaninglessly tense conversation with half-hearted exchanges of '_So how've you been?'_s which were promptly responded to with assorted '_You knows'_s and '_Nothing much'_s. Raven lackadaisically described her new career and her new novel (A romance novel. Who'd of thought?) along with a shrugging account of Adeline, France, and life in general.

But…

Throughout the entire time…

She had a look.

_That Look._ He thought with a grim huff._ That Look she gets whenever something bad is about to happen…_

Whatever it was, something was still bothering her. Keeping their conversation rooted down to the ground like a brick on the tail of a kite.

Finally, after nearly twelve excruciating minutes…Cyborg finally leaned forward in his seat.

"Raven?"

"Yes?" She responded immediately, that worried smile still bobbing the corner of her mouth.

"It's really good to see you again. You know how important you are to me."

Her eyes dipped down.

"I know."

"And I am really…_really_ happy that you're back. Both you and Adeline."

"I know."

_Stop beating around the bush. She may have grown up but she still isn't one for conflict. _

"So…I think we can both make this a lot easier and more enjoyable…for _both_ of us if you just tell me what's been bothering you. Why do you think I'm in danger?"

He searched for her eyes but again, it had drifted again. This time to the window. They stayed there; lavender and half-lidded. She slowly crossed her arms.

After several beats of quiet contemplated, she finally sighed and glanced back at him. She was frowning. Serious. Somber even.

And again…her beauty nudged its way back into his mind. He had to shake his head.

Raven closed her eyes.

"You know that we spent a lot of time together, Cyborg. After…Adeline's father died?"

Cyborg's fingers wrinkled the tablecloth, a faint knot in his stomach suddenly tightening.

_Not good…bad territory_

"Yes?" He responded slowly, lowering his head. He was prepping himself.

"And you said…how much I'd changed? How different I was?"

"Ye-e-e-s…?"

Her eyes opened partly. She smiled partly. "I remember…one time. It was the New Year. Adeline had been tucked in and we were counting down the minutes to the New Year. Remember?"

_Nine years ago. The party at the tower. The fireworks over the city. The night sky over the ocean. The spilled punch bowl. The conga line. _

Cyborg smiled fondly back. "Yeah. Helluva party."

Raven's smile faltered. Cyborg cleared his throat and swallowed.

"We were all there. It was the last New Year's Party we'd all have together. The last party we'd _ever_ have together, really. It had just been…something you said to me that night. It'd been two minutes before midnight and we were all gathered in the control room. The lights were flashing all over the city, and we were all watching the screen. Beast Boy was flying around the ceiling, Starfire and Robin were holding each other…and you, in the final ten seconds, just glanced over as plainly as ever down at my feet and said 'Y'know…I've never seen you barefoot in my entire life.' I'd never been so speechless in my life."

Raven grinned, and then almost chuckled. Cyborg blinked, remembered, and smiled back.

Then he laughed.

"I do remember!" He slapped his knee. "You'd taken your shoes off for dancing! I **remember**! It'd been the first time I'd seen you dance too! You had said that the only way you were dancing was if something by Beethoven came on the radio! You made a bet with Beast Boy about it and no sooner had you shaken hands when one of his symphonies came blasting over the speakers! Jesus, you were so mad about that! What was that song? We through the entire thing!"

Raven's voice perked up just as Cyborg remembered.

They finished in unison.

"Beethoven's 5th!"

They fell back in their seats, shoulders bobbing with good ol' nostalgic chuckles.

Their glasses rattled.

The grand-father clock ticked

And…slowly…silence slowly crept back in.

Raven composed herself, slowly shook her head. "It was just…something about the way you'd said that. Something that made me realize just _who_ I was. A shadow in a cloak. Half a face in a hood. A person who never dances and never takes their shoes off." Cyborg could see her fingers tense for a moment…then ease. "As soon as you said that, Cyborg, I realized just what I'd been missing. After that I kicked my shoes off every chance I had. I dance to songs I didn't even like. I never wanted to be a face in a hood again. I didn't want to be afraid anymore."

Cyborg shifted in his seat, his finger sliding around the rim of his glass. For some reason, if he'd of been sitting closer, he had a feeling she'd of taken his hand at that moment.

"Which is why…I'm concerned for you. Cyborg, you're wearing your hood up."

Cyborg righted himself; felt for the hood to his jacket and realized that it was indeed pulled up over his brow, shading his red eye in shadow.

He hadn't noticed.

He always wore his hood up nowadays.

Quickly, he pulled it back, lowering his voice. "It's just so that I don't get looks from people. That's all."

Raven's expression gently hardened, now leaning between a surprising severity and a lip-biting worry; both of which bothered him. "That's not all that's changed about you Cyborg. You're not yourself anymore. You didn't give a damn what people thought of you when you were a Titan. You didn't even _wear_ clothes. You're so quieter now. You're reserved. You…you just look so _sad_."

He huffed. "Raven, why would I be sad? I'm getting to see you and Adeline again! What could be better than that? Everything is fine, trust me."

Her expressional lined out. "Then why aren't we at your apartment?"

"It's…not…a very good place is all. Certainly not as nice as _this_ place."

"Cyborg, you're acting like _me_." Raven regarded him. "Just tell me the truth. I heard Hex say something about your apartment…exploding. Is that true?"

_God damn you, chatterbox Hex._

Cyborg's palms pressed flat against the table, his head bowing. "Yeah. A fire. Just an accident." His eyes flicked back to hers. "Is that what you had a bad feeling about?"

Raven's hand crept up her arm. "I'm not sure. I did have a dream. A bad one. While I was in France. A couple of days before I flew over. I'm not sure _what_ it means."

Cyborg eased forward in his seat as Raven continued. "All I know was that it…it involved _you_. I just _knew_ it did. I was standing in a room. I think it may have been…a surgery room. A S.T.A.R. Laboratory. It…it was burning."

Cyborg's eyes winced.

"There was fire _everywhere_, Cyborg. It was burning _everything_! And…a voice, there was this voice _singing_. I could hear it the entire time. It was saying…something…"

_Fire Fire Everywhere…it burns the lungs and heats the air! Where is Daddy? Won't he care? Never fading…always there. Daddy's coming. Don't despair._

Instantly, Cyborg's head went up, gaze angling over his shoulder. His eyes swept the room.

Where had that come from?

Had she said it?

Had _he_?

He couldn't tell anymore, and suddenly…

He felt nauseous.

Raven's head rose with his, as if she'd heard it too. "Cyborg?"

He glanced back at Raven, a dozen beads of sweat suddenly prickling along his brow. It didn't feel like a nervous sweat. No. Not at all. It was the sweat from _heat_. From a blaring overhead sun. From an uncontrolled fire.

An image of something red, orange and hot filled his vision for a moment, and Cyborg lowered his head, grimacing. "It's all behind me Rae. All of it."

"You're acting like me." She said again. "You're acting like it has nothing to do with your life. Like it simply doesn't exist! You remember to _me_ when that happened, don't you? It's not going away, y'know. Pasts never do."

"There's nothing there I want to remember. Just fire, blood, and pain."

"What about a _family_, Cyborg? I know you have one out there!"

"They're all dead."

"You don't know that! You don't remember anything about what happened to them. You said so yourself."

Cyborg closed his eyes and shook his head, gritting his teeth. He had lied.

_It had been raining. The windshield-wipers could hardly keep up. The moon was hanging through the branches over the road. He was in the backseat. He had been holding a trophy. He was still wearing his football uniform. From the rear-view mirror, the glassy eyes of his father stared back. They didn't even seem to be looking at the road. He looked so damn proud. His mother sat in the passenger's seat. He remembered her talking. Her voice. Her words of praise. How proud she was. How happy she was. But it was nothing compared to his father's gaze. Nothing was. The windshields hummed and squeaked, the rain hissed and dribbled, and Cyborg was in the happiest place in the world._

_Then…_

_Headlights in the windshield. _

_A truck horn suddenly blared._

_His father's eyes suddenly dropping back onto the road. _

_The steering wheel jerked._

_There was a screech from his mother. _

_And a screech from the brakes…_

_Then…_

_Fire Fire Everywhere…_

Cyborg stood up, rattling the table.

Raven stood up with him.

"Raven." He said, finding himself out of breath. "I don't **want** to remember. You need to know that. All those meetings we had, all those _sessions_ I went through…it was just a step-by-step procedure to for me to learn how to suppress my memory banks."

The dark girl shook her head. "But there was so much _more_ to it than that!"

"No! There isn't! My bygones aren't Trigons, Raven! There is no sinister plot at work here! There's no threat to the world, or evil interstellar demons, or any god-damn prophesy! Stop trying to make something out of nothing. My life's excitement is _over_."

Raven sighed at him. Now _she_ looked upset.

Cyborg bit his lip.

Great job, jerk. Nothing helps a bad mood like spreadin' it around.

When she spoke again, her tone had dropped. "Whatever you decide to do with your life is up to you, Cyborg. Adeline and I are here to _visit_ you, not put you on a shrink's couch. If you don't want to talk about your family, that's fine. If you're still willing to get into an argument about it…that's fine too. I'm sorry I brought it up. I won't again."

She turned towards the door. Cyborg watched her go, still sweating and still feeling a bad case of heat churning about his stomach. He wanted to say something.

Raven had one hand on the doorknob when she paused, turning to the side and giving him her profile against the next room.

"I used to think…that my life's excitement was over too when Trigon was destroyed. I thought that for a long time. Even started getting used to the idea, in fact."

He could feel her eyes on him.

"…And then I met Adeline's father."

Cyborg glanced up, but the door was already shutting.

He heard her footsteps trace down the hall…then quiet again.

That big old grand-father clocked chimed once again, its pendulum swinging side to side like the head of a disappointed bystander.

_Tick…_

_Tock…_

_Tick…_

_NICE ONE, DUMBASS!_

_Tock…_

Cyborg let out a sigh that pulled his butt into his chair. "Yeah, nice one." He repeated sourly.

_**xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx**_

**"Blessed indeed is the man who hears many gentle voices call him father**"

-Lydia Child

The red light on the tape recorder clicked on.

'_Play' click_

_Sssssskkkkkkkktttttttt_

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

_knock-knock_

…

…

…

_knock-knock-knock-knock-knock_

…

…

…

"_Doctor?"_

…

…

…

_knock-knock-knock-knock-knock-knock_

"_Doctor Herod? Are you in there?"_

…

…

…

…

"_If you don't answer me, I'm coming in regardless!"_

…

…

…

…

…

_cluh-click_

_cre-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-eak_

…

_clip-clop-clip-clop-clip-clop-cli-_

…

…

…

"_Doctor! There you are!"_

"_Shhhhhhhhhhh."_

"_What are you still doing here? Why aren't you-"_

"_You gotta be quiet, Samantha. Ya'll shouldn't wake a boy while he's sleepin'. Especially one as precious as this. He's dreaming right now, y'know. He's dreamin' up somethin' beautiful."_

"_Doctor, __**please**__. You haven't left the room for weeks. We need results!-"_

"_He said somethin' in his sleep two hours ago. First legitimate words I'd done heard come topplin' from his lips since I met him. Funny thing what he said."_

"…_what was it?"_

"'_Father."_

"…_doctor…"_

"'_**Father'**__, Samantha! Isn't that incredible? His first instinctual plea is a cry for his ol' daddy. Makes me wonder what he must'a been like…"_

"_Yes, that's __**progress**__, Doctor Herod, but we need to know whether or not he's going to __**work**__. We need to know whether we can have him back in the Labs by January! We need to see if-"_

"…"

"…"

"…_Dr. Herod?"_

"…"

"…"

"_Doctor __**Herod**__!"_

"_It's…all so strange."_

"_What? What is?!"_

"_He called for his papa. And for an odd moment there…I could have sworn he was talking to me. Calling for me. Calling __**me**__ his daddy."_

"_Dr. Herod, sir, the Labs kindly asked for you not to get attached to the subject. He's a __**weapon**__. A tool. As of six months ago, he's property of the United States Military."_

"_I've known him…for half a year now. I've stayed by his bed. I've read him stories. I've fed him, cleaned him, guarded him...but he still hasn't seen my face yet. He don't know what I look like."_

…

…

…

"_No, Doctor. No he hasn't."_

"_And when he wakes up…he's still not going to have the opportunity to meet me at __**all, **__won't he."_

"_No."_

"_Hmmm. It's a funny thing."_

"_I guess it can be."_

"_Y'all said the rest of his folks are dead?"_

"_For the most part."_

"_What will he remember?"_

"_Nothing."_

"_What will happen to him?"_

"_He shall be brought to the Labs for testing. If you've done your job correctly, than you shall receive the rest of your payment. As agreed."_

"_What's his name?"_

"_Doctor…it is __**irrelevant**__. You don't know this boy and you don't __**need**__ to know this boy. You don't know anything about him! He's no longer defined as a human by the United States standards! He's no longer a __**person**__, Dr. Herod! Why is he so special to you?"_

…

"…_Because…"_

…

"_Because… he's going to be something __**amazing**__, Samantha. He's family now."_

"_What makes you say that?"_

"…_he did, Samantha. He called me Daddy."_

…

…

…

"_Doctor…we've seen you attempt this operation before…"_

"_I'm quite aware of your doubts, Miss Stevenson, and I can assure you that the most difficult part of the procedure is over. My boy here passed the final hump. He'll be fine. Perfect even. Just what the doctor ordered."_

"…_very well. Keep us posted."_

"_I shall, Samantha. The exit's the third door on the left. Take care now."_

…

…

_clip-clop clip-clop clip-clop_

"_Oh, and Samantha?"_

_clip-clop cli-_

…

"…_yes, Dr. Herod?"_

"_Please be sure to send my regards to the Labs. They do good work."_

…

"_I shall Doctor. Goodnight."_

…

'_Stop' click_

'_Rewind' click_

_Fid-fid-fid-fid-fid-fid-fid-fid-fid-fid-fid-fid-fid_

'_Play' click_

"_Because…he's going to be something amazing, Samantha. He's family now."_

"_What makes you say that?"_

"…_he did, Samantha. He called me Daddy."_

'_Stop' click_

'_Rewind' click_

_fid-fid-fid-fid_

'_Play' click_

"_-es you say that?."_

"…_he did, Samantha. He called me Daddy."_

'_Stop' click_

'_Rewind' click_

_fid-fid-fid-fid_

'_Play' click_

"…_he did, Samantha. He called me Daddy."_

'_Stop' click_

'_Rewind' click_

_fid-fid-fid-fid_

"_He called me Daddy."_

'_Stop' click_

…

…

…

'_Rewind' click_

_fid-fid-fid_

'_Play' click_

"…_Daddy."_

'_Stop' click_

The light on the recorder blinked out.

…

Silence.

…

"Daddy's coming. Never fear. Daddy's running. Running here._"_

Ending Author's Note: Just so you know, all these recordings will be involved with the plot in the future. I won't give anything else away here, but I would like to tell you that I truly appreciate everyone who has reviewed and would humbly and happily kiss the ground which you stand on. Really. It's weird how eagerly I'd be willing to that.


	18. Chapter 18 A Red Curtain falls on ACT I

Author's Note: Sorry 'bout the wait. We're casting again for our play. 'Fiddler on the Roof this year. I'm going out for Tevye. But you don't need to worry 'bout **that** story when there are so many open ended ambiguities left in **this** one! Well, this chapter marks the end of Act I of the Scarlet Sonata! From here one in, things will develop more of a rising motion with more percussion and strings. Enjoy!

_Beedle Beedle Beedle_

Barlavoni's pager went off.

Instantly, the Police Chief's eyes went up, his hands lowering the newspaper.

He listened.

Waited.

Waited.

Waited.

A few seconds passed.

He shrugged.

Started to raise his paper back up when-

_Beedle Beedle Beedle Beedle_

-the pager went off again.

The Police Chief glanced up.

"Shit."

For the second time, Barlavoni threw down his newspaper and leaned forward, working his hands into the pockets of his pants. He pulled out his wallet, a handful of change, and his lighter before finally finding it.

He lifted it up just as it 'beedled' again.

"Sharon, dammit, I'm on the can. You know how I feel when I get interrupted when I'm on the can. What the hell is it?"

Sharon's voice garbled through the other end, completely indifferent. She'd paged him on the can before.

"_Chief, that FBI agent is back."_

Barlavoni paused.

"Jeremiah Hobbs? He's back?"

"_Yes sir. He wants to talk to you. Very polite about it."_

With a grunt, Barlavoni pushed himself upright and scowled.

He'd been _waiting_ for this.

FBI or not, a man like Hobbs should at least know what a _watch_ was.

"Well," Barlavoni said, turning over his shoulder and flushing. "-you can tell that no-good sonofabitch that he was _supposed_ to of 'been back' over five hours ago. If that damn Hobbs doesn't take me seriously enough then he'll have to do more than flash a badge to get involved in _my_ cases. Same goes for a-"

"_Chief, he says that he has some evidence 'bout the murders. Says it's vital. Pictures. Recordings. Hard evidence."_

Barlavoni stood, wrestling up his pants and yanking irritably at a jammed zipper.

He pressed the pager between his ear and shoulder.

"I'll be right down. Tell him to wait in my office and make sure he _doesn't_ touch anything."

"_Will do, Chief."_

Barlavoni's jaw was still working as he flushed a second time and pushed his way out of the stall, leaving his paper on the floor.

Jeremiah Hobbs with evidence.

Christ, this was just what he _hadn't_ wanted.

As much as he would love for this case to get solved, cracked and buried; he _didn't_ want it to be worked entirely by the tweedy white hand of the FBI.

This was his case too, god damnit!

He'll see what Hobbs had to offer, and hope to high hell it was worth the five hours it took him to get it.

The faucet squealed as his meaty, hairy hands twisted the 'hot' knob. He dispensed a generous amount of soap, glanced back to his stall, glanced over to the dispenser, shrugged, and pumped out several more squirts.

Despite what many officers thought, Barlavoni _always_ washed his hands.

After murders.

After cases.

And especially after a twenty minute date with his favorite seat in the building.

Barlavoni took his bathroom breaks very seriously. The far stall in the Little Boy's Room was a helluva lot quieter than his office. After nearly ten years of running the station, Barlavoni had wordlessly claimed his own toilet and had spent many hours brooding in there with his pants around his ankles and today's headlines in front of his eyes.

Best damn place to brainstorm in his opinion, which was why being interrupted by an evidence-bearing Hobbs raised the veins in his neck as they were now. All his miraculous breakthroughs on the most baffling of cases had always occurred to him with his hairy backside planted on the ivory seat.

The broken watch that had linked the taxi driver to a double homicide in East Jump last year.

A disregarded snippet during a suspect's interrogation that actually revealed the location of a smuggled home-made pipe-bomb in the subway during the Christmas of 2002.

A successful crackdown of a major drug cartel in the Slums that had gone unchecked for nearly ten years.

And the _real_ topper; the identity of the serial killer who'd claimed over five victims in a three week reign of terror that had all boiled down to a fateful and bloody shoot-out in the killer's very own pawn shop.

Hell, he could remember how much of a nightmare that had been.

Everyone on the Force had a hard time believing that Ollie Hamilton of '_Hamilton's Good Ol' Fashioned Goods and Supplies'_ could actually be the man whose bloody tendency of hoarding a limb or two from his victims had the newspapers nicknaming him 'Mr. Memento'. 'Mr. Memento' would steal young women's feet, hands, and once had taken an entire damn torso.

Not one of them could accepted that the kind-eyed little man behind the mahogany desk at Pawn Shop at the corner of the 1201st and 1202nd was responsible for the five diced up girls they'd been collecting all week. Not one of them had _wanted_ to.

Hamilton had been the guy who'd sold half of Barlavoni's senior officers hard lemonade and licorice when they were still rookies under Barlavoni's new hold in office.

Everyone knew him.

Everyone liked him.

It made Barlavoni start doubting the evidence for the first time in his career.

Doubting the hard break-through evidence he'd personally sniffed out at the latest murder of the fifth victim. The evidence that had all the spotlights pointing to Hamilton and an end to 'Mr. Memento's' vicious killing spree….

…Just because Hamilton was such a nice guy. A good man who'd never hurt anyone and you knew it.

…

…

Any lesser of a cop would've let the evidence slide.

But not Hiram Barlavoni.

Five dead girls had been enough for him.

The next day, biting his lip and half-heartedly puffing on a cigar, Barlavoni had shown up at Hamilton's door, carrying with him a Search-Warrant, two escort officers, and a silent prayer to God that it'd all be one big waste of time.

Well, prayers were never the safest gambit for a Police Chief to place his bets on.

When Barlavoni showed up on his doorstop, Hamilton's built up paranoia must have finally gotten the better of him. He'd led Barlavoni and both his officers into his store, hung up their coats for them, then calmly moved behind his counter, removed his 12-gauge shotgun, and proceeded to make an extraordinary mess of things.

Both of Barlavoni's officers were killed in a matter of seconds with faces full of burning lead.

A fist-full of shotgun spray had managed to find a lovely spot in the back of Barlavoni's left thigh, blowing away a good chunk of hamstring that was just two inches shy of leaving a permanent stunt in his stride, but it'd take a helluva lot more to take a man like Barlavoni down. After several more exchanges of gunfire, the Police Chief finally put four hot slugs into the poor bastard's gut and sent him backpedaling out a three story window onto a fire hydrant thirty five feet below.

Thus ended Ollie Hamilton.

However...it wasn't until Barlavoni saw Hamilton's _basement_ did he ever see it as the end of 'Mr. Memento'. Only after he flicked on that sputtering old light and saw Hamilton's shelves of fleshy _keepsakes_ that'd earned him his namesake could he finally nod to himself and say that they'd nabbed the right guy. On the floor was his dusty toolkit of razor steel and sedatives, tacked on his bookshelves were numerous photographs of numerous girls in numerous locations. And…tacked up all over the walls and ceiling; were those pornographic, fucked up drawings of his. Some colored, some inked, some looking like they had been scrawled them in human blood.

God, some physiatrists dream _those_ things were.

Every so often; Barlavoni would remember them.

Instant camera flashes across his mind of those pencil drawn lines of contorted flesh and mutilated genitalia. They usually appeared while he was watching a particularly fine pair of legs strut by him on the side-walk, or maybe while absently flipping through a dirty magazine. Sometimes though…on more than one occasion…he thought of them while making love to his wife.

Yeesh.

Sufficed to say _any_ of those pictures were _more_ than capable of killing an erection and bring an unsatisfactory ending to any night no matter how much Champaign and lit candles there were.

So far…it'd happened three times.

All because of those pictures.

And to think….

All of them drawn by the same guy who sold Barlavoni his favorite whiskey flask.

Hamilton didn't look the part of a killer. In all honesty, Barlavoni had taken an initial shining to that wiry little man when he first stepped into '_Oliver Hamilton's Good Ol' Goods and Supplies_' nearly five years ago. Mr. Hamilton; with his wrinkly old Cheshire cat face, his wincing half-smile…and that little white gleam he got in his left eye whenever a storm was coming.

Hamilton looked like a guy who belonged on the ocean, spending his childhood on his grandpa's fishing boat trying to yank in lobster traps while stumbling around on barnacle encrusted decks and spending his elderly years rocking back and forth on an old porch with peeling white paint that overlooked the ocean. Rocking back and forth and waiting for something to appear on the horizon.

He just had that look in his eye. That occasional little _gleam_.

Barlavoni remembered still seeing that gleam even as Hamilton lay there on the pavement three weeks later; four bullets in his stomach, spine folded backwards over a fire-hydrant, and shiny brains spread out like a scarlet sunrise around his head.

_He has that gleam._ He had thought. _Must be a storm coming._

…

…

That had been the only case that'd stuck with Barlavoni.

His Whiskey Inkling had done _nothing_ for him during the whole three weeks the 'Mr. Memento' was on the loose. He didn't suspect Hamilton of _anything_ until one of his victims put up a fight at the crime-scene and knocked out the right lens to his glasses during the struggle. Barlavoni had found it…and while squatting down on his faithful crapper to work through a particularly nasty burrito two days later, suddenly remembered that Hamilton had been missing a right lens to his big black spectacles just that afternoon while he was buying a new toaster from his shop.

That had resulted in Barlavoni knocking on Hamilton's door with a Search-Warrant.

That had resulted in a gunfight.

And _that_ had resulted in a broken window, a dead Hamilton, and a couple nasty memories whenever Barlavoni got intimate with the Missis.

Just goes to show, you never know someone until you see their basement.

For some reason…he thought of Cyborg…and his frown deepened.

Barlavoni wasn't wrong often. He prided himself in that. It's what made him a good police chief. Armed with Jinx, his toilet, and his Whiskey Inkling, Barlavoni was able to stare down the worst scum the city had to offer.

Still though….Lord knows he wasn't perfect.

Things would slip by him.

Small little details could sometimes ease their way under his Whiskey Inkling's radar, a slip in the pay could cause Jinx to give him false intel on the Slum activities, and sometimes…well…Barlavoni would just go to the toilet to take a shit.

He's been wrong before.

It happened before with Hamilton.

It could have happened again.

_Any less of a cop would let it slide. You less of a cop now as you were then?_

Barlavoni shook this off and shouldered his way through the bathroom door. He turned the corner and headed for his office, the sounds of phones, rustling paper, and the occasional shout-outs from desk to desk slowly crowding the air.

From one of the reception desks, a policeman stood up. His hand was over the receiver of a phone and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses hung low on his nose. He was holding a mug of coffee in his other hand reminding Barlavoni of just how tired he was.

"Chief?" The officer called. "There's a call coming in from a Carl H. Peabody. Missing Person Report. You still want us to notify you 'bout all the ones that come in?"

Barlavoni turned, placing a cigar in his mouth and padding his pockets for a light. "Yes. Gimme the details on this one."

"It's being filed for his daughter, Mary Peabody, age 19, better known by her street-name 'Crystal'. She's a hooker who works in the Slums but that's as much of a lead we got on her right now. We do know that she's very popular though, says she has a great tan."

Barlavoni nodded. "Aight. Put it with the others. I don't care _who_ calls, keep a record of every single damn 'Missing Person' reports that you hear about. Don't leave out _any_ details. Where was she seen last?"

"Her father says that she was last seen Thursday. We're trying to get hold of some of her clients but…well, you know how the Slums are. We'll keep you posted."

Again the Police Chief nodded and turned to go when something bobbed up to his attention.

_Tan…_

Biting his lip for a moment, he turned back, removing the cigar from his mouth.

"Martinez?"

The officer glanced back up.

"What color was her hair?"

The officer glanced back down at some papers and gave it a quick read-through. "Uhm…blonde. But the father says that she has an expensive red wig that she carries around."

Slowly, Barlavoni's Whiskey Inkling slowly started prickling.

"How long is the hair to the wig?"

"Oh, 'bout waist length judging from the father's description."

He narrowed his eyes, pressing. "She a hefty girl, Martinez?"

"No sir. Says here she's thin a broom-handle. Tall too. Why?"

Barlavoni grinned slightly.

_Gotcha…_

"Nothing. Write it down and keep me posted."

"Yessir."

Barlavoni turned away and started heading for the wire-framed windows of his office. The shudders were soundly closed, the door soundly shut. Somehow, even if he hadn't told Sharon to send him in there, Barlavoni _knew_ that Hobbs was on the other side of that door. He could already _smell_ that scent of his. That artificial, nauseating hospital-smell. It got his stomach going from here.

Distantly, he wondered if Hobb's evidence had anything to do with this Crystal. To be honest, it wouldn't really surprise him. It also wouldn't surprise him if the FBI agent was drawing the same summations that he was with these murders.

Nathaniel Howards: Assistant to Garfield Logan A.K.A Beast Boy. Found murdered 3 days ago. Nineteen years old. Standing around 5'5. Short spiky hair. Thin wiry frame. All characteristics of his green employer back in his youthful uniform days as a Teen Titan.

Lauren Callihan: Employee of '_Griffin's Pawns Shop'._ Missing for 2 days. Said to be thin, short, pale, and short-tempered. Most recent haircut has it at shoulder length, rumored to be dyed blue. All characteristics of _another_ Teen Titan.

And now…

Mary 'Crystal' Peabody: Some classy hooker in the Slums District. Just reported missing. Said to be thin, tall, and tan. Owner of a waist-length red wig that she wears on the job. It would only take someone with a memory and a shred of common sense to guess who _this_ one could be.

Three Titans down.

Beast Boy, Raven, and Starfire.

If there's a merciful god in heaven, all Honorary Titans would not be included in this hellish Look-Alike contest and leave the last two contestants as Robin and Cyborg.

_Cyborg_…

Again, the Police Chief frowned.

The stiff recovered from _Mr. Griffin's Pawn Shop_ was currently being autopsied by the boys downstairs, but the details of his death was made apparent enough by the pictures taken at the scene.

Mr. Griffin's neck had been crushed like a beer-can. 'Almost to the point of decapitation' George had said. 'Not a lotta people 'round here are capable of doing something like that.'

Barlavoni shook it off and replaced the unlit cigar back into his mouth.

He wasn't convinced yet.

It'd take more than coincidence. A lot more.

It'd take guaranteed proof.

Pictures.

Recordings.

Hard evidence.

Till then, Cyborg was out of the picture.

_I'm not less of a cop. I'm just less of a careless one._

With a reassuring huff, Barlavoni pushed open the door to his office.

Immediately, Hobb's _smell_ swelled up like a back-draft. Barlavoni winced, quickly closing the door and fighting the urge to tug the collar of his shirt up over his nose.

Christ, Barlavoni couldn't imagine how many aerosol cans Hobb's wife had stockpiled in their house. FBI salary or not, no woman alive would be able to live with a man smelling like _that _and do nothing to cover it up.

He turned back to his office, suddenly noticing that all the lights were off, the blinds were completely drawn, the only illumination in the entire room being the hazy orange afternoon sun as it filtered between the shutters. From on top of his desk, the glowing red dot of his radio gleamed; a grainy sounding Nina Simoun singing a slow, jazzy 1960s version '_Feelin' Good'_ filling the room like an echo.

He could barely make out the lyrics.

_It's a new dawn_

_It's a new day_

_It's a new life_

_For me_

…

…

…

_And I'm feeling __**Good**_

Barlavoni frowned.

Damn it, Sharon was supposed to make sure he didn't touch anything!

Sweeping an eye around the room Barlavoni suddenly realized that wasn't the worst thing. What _was_ worse was that the FBI agent was _nowhere_ to be seen. With the blinds shut the rest of the room was just too damn dark. But he _was_ here alright. There was no doubt about that.

Barlavoni maneuvered to the other side of his desk, half expecting to feel some clammy white hands reach out and suddenly grab him. He quickly snatched the string and pulled the blinds up, letting in an entire window full of smoky afternoon sunlight.

He turned around.

"Okay Hobbs, where are-."

Barlavoni stopped, taking a quick step back and rattling the blinds with his shoulders.

_CHRIST!_

Jeremiah Hobbs was standing across from him. Less than three feet away. Smiling.

The Police Chief was _sure_ that he hadn't been standing there two seconds before…

"Hello again, Mr. Barlavoni."

In the rusted sunlight, Jeremiah Hobbs looked more like a corpse at a wake then anything else. The lines on his face looked stiff, hard, stuffed with sawdust and preservatives. His wispy blonde hair was neatly combed back, his face carved up into an all-teeth grin, and his eyes as wide and black as a bird's.

FBI or not, this guy was unsettling.

Barlavoni had forgotten just how unsettling.

He recovered quickly

"Glad to see you decided to show up, Jeremiah." Barlavoni grinned, shouldering by the agent and seating himself down in his big, leather chair. "Although I'm pretty sure you said you were coming by 'bout-" A quick glance to his watch. "Oh, about five _hours_ ago. Have trouble finding the station or something?"

Hobbs never stopped smiling, his slurring Southern accent flowing out like smoke. "I do apologize for my…tardiness, Mr. Barlavoni. It's just that….while I was alone; thinking, pondering….I was suddenly struck with…a certain degree of…_inspiration_. A certain form of…enlightenment, if you will."

Barlavoni huffed and pulled open his desk drawer, searching for a lighter. His cigar was still in his mouth and still unlit.

"Well, you can spare me your illuminating breakthroughs for now. What I'm looking for is a little background on _you,_ remember. We're partners now, right?"

There was a metallic flick, and suddenly Barlavoni saw a flame light up the end of his cigar.

He glanced up.

Hobbs grinned back.

"Yes we are, Mr. Barlavoni." He cooed, flicking his lighter closed and pocketing it. "And as such, you have every right to know a bit 'bout little ol' me. It's only fair."

With a small flourish, he reached into his coat and removed a tan folder, tightly bound with string. Fittingly, 'TOP SECRET' was scrawled across the top in capitol, handwritten letters.

"That's all I am allowed to tell about myself, Mr. Barlavoni. It's all in there. I can only hope it's…satisfactory."

Barlavoni snatched it out of his hand, puffing casually on his cigar. He untied the string and emptied the contents of the folder onto his desk, leaning over to scrutinize them.

He sighed smoke.

Nothing too special.

Papers, tables, charts, single space, size 8 fonts.

Typical FBI.

Nothing special. Nothing sinister.

The Police Chief spread the papers out, flipping from page to page and pie graph to bar graph. The titles to most of them were impressive to say the least.

"Quite the record." Barlavoni said tastelessly, replacing his cigar to the other side of his mouth. "Looks like you're the pride of the entire Bureau judging from this. Kinda surprised they'd unleash you for something as routine as this."

Hobbs slowly slid his hands behind his back, bowing graciously. "I thank you, Mr. Barlavoni, but I'm actually not here _officially_."

At this, Barlavoni raised his gaze.

"What?"

Hobb's smile widened. His teeth just a _bit_ too white and a _little_ too straight. "Technically, I'm on vacation. The boys in New Orleans decided I deserved a little….down time."

The wheels on Barlavoni's chair squealed as the police chief scooted himself back, his cigar drooping. "I'm afraid that we don't run a _social_ club here, Mr. Hobbs. Is there a reason why you didn't feel a necessary need to divulge this information _earlier_?"

The FBI Agent gave the slightest of shrugs. "The choice was always _yours_, Mr. Barlavoni. Surely you wouldn't want me to be here _officially_, now would you? This is all still _your_ case, remember."

"Why the hell would you want to spend your vacation time-"

"I've dealt with this killer before. Though he's been in your city for a good long while, I've known him for _years_. I've promised myself I'd catch him…at all costs."

Barlavoni sucked hard on his cigar for a moment, eying Hobbs through his sharp gray eyes. He reached full inhale, held it, then glanced down at his watch.

_Thank Jesus…_

"Well, what do you know….Whiskey Hour."

For the first time, Jeremiah Hobb's expression dropped.

"I…beg your pardon?"

Now it was Barlavoni's turn to smile. "Whiskey Hour, Hobbs." He yanked opened two of his drawers. "It's a necessity in my schedule. It basically means we carry on our conversations with the ice-breaking power of booze. I usually settle for some good ol' Scotch myself but I know that someone as sophisticated as _you_ would probably go for something a lil' Hoi Polloi. Hang on, I'll see what I have."

Placing his cigar on the table, Barlavoni began rummaging through the drawers, rattling glasses and grunting. Hobbs almost looked surprised. Unpleasantly so.

"Lessee here….got Grey Goose from France, Koskenkorva Viina from Finland, German Rachmaninoff. Take your pick, I got plenty."

Hobbs said nothing.

Barlavoni straightened, holding up a half-empty bottle in one hand and rattling two shot glasses in the other. "Nothing like a drinking buddy, eh Hobbs?"

Hobbs said nothing.

Barlavoni rattled the glasses again. "Whatya say? Two glasses, one bottle, sixty minutes?"

Still…Hobbs said nothing.

Barlavoni shrugged.

"Alright, you don't like the strong stuff, don't sweat it. It's an acquired taste, I understand. Not a lot of my officers like it either." He ducked back down to the drawer. "Howza 'bout some good ol' Brandy, then? Got some of that towards the back…."

"I'm afraid…I'm not the drinking type."

Barlavoni's grin widened. "Awww, against the FBI code of standards? C'mon Hobbs, shrug off the image already. We're in the big city now, not the Bureau. Live a little will ya?"

Hobbs didn't smile.

"Fathers shouldn't…._drink_, Mr. Barlavoni. It's a bad influence for their…_children_."

Barlavoni responded by pouring two drinks anyway. "Well Hobbs, as I said earlier, this _is_ the big city. Our kids have a lot more to worry about than a little whisky in the morning." He suddenly glanced up. "Wait a minute, you got kids, Hobbs?"

Something sparked within those deep, dry eyes and he bowed his head. "Oh _yes_. And she's…so very important to me. Making sure that she has a orderly, safe, and…_right_ future ahead of her…is the _most_ important thing a father can _do_ for their child…isn't it, Mr. Barlavoni?"

Something about the way Hobbs said it made Barlavoni suddenly feel very sorry for the FBI Agent's daughter. That girl is in for a world of smelly text-books and expensive schools. Probably won't get any action till her honeymoon with a father like Hobbs wielding half the Bureau just to keep an eye on you.

"Oh well." He finally shrugged. "The young folks nowadays have the Titans to look up to. Good strapping citizens those Titans are, right? Your daughter can find a role model in them."

With a hearty grin, he raised his glass. "Here's to the Teen Titans, Hobbs! Whattya say?"

Hobb's black, wet eyes seemed to cringe at this, like a wince to an unwanted camera flash. His lips drew back, his hands tightened, his chin lowered.

Barlavoni didn't notice. As of now, he was staring at Jeremiah through the bottom of his shot glass. The Police Chief swallowed, burped, and dragged a sleeve across his mug. "That is a mighty fine taste." He said, casually loosening his tie and raising a wry, sweaty brow. "Still not interested? I usually hit seven shots before calling it good. Standard seven shot policy."

The FBI agent slowly shook his head, he hardly seemed to be even looking at him anymore.

Barlavoni shrugged and poured himself another drink, each time toasting it to something different before swigging it down.

One to good reason.

One to gut instincts.

One to stubbornness.

And one for those two underpaid Mexicans working at the gas-station (though he couldn't recall their names for the life of him).

Hobbs watched as the Police Chief drank; every so often his gaze drifting to the window, then to the walls, then to Barlavoni again. He seemed suddenly unhappy about something.

Finally, after the Police Chief downed his fifth glass dedicated to a special friend named Jinx, the FBI Agent took a quiet step forward.

"Do you think highly of the Titans, Mr. Barlavoni?"

The question luckily caught the Police Chief during a refill.

"What about the Titans?"

Jeremiah Hobbs repeated himself, blinking slowly. "I asked if you think highly of the Teen Titans."

"Oh. Yeah. They're good kids. Good citizens."

He downed his sixth.

"Why do you ask?"

"On your walls. I happened to notice that you have pictures of them. The old and the new. You're….shaking their hands."

"Welcoming them to the city. It's good to have good relations with the superheroes."

"Then you must…_trust_ them."

"Well, why wouldn't I trust them?"

Those narrow black eyes drifted over to one of the pictures on the wall again, not answering. Barlavoni shrugged and poured and downed his seventh and last shot. "In any case, they're doing their country good as far as I'm concerned."

Standing back up he turned to face Hobbs once again. "And that's all one can really as of-"

….

…

Barlavoni stopped.

Jeremiah was staring at his pictures again, obviously not listening at all.

But that wasn't it.

Something was suddenly different with Hobbs.

His eyes were different.

_He_ was different.

It was funny…but for a moment, illuminated in that hazy orange afternoon sun, Jeremiah Hobbs had suddenly changed. The way he _stood_, the way he _breathed_, the way his gaze wondered listlessly down the wall…it all became so suddenly _different_. The light seemed to reflect off his skin like bone, the shadows of his cheekbones suddenly becoming deeper, his hairline seeming to have crawled back several more inches on his skull, and his soft, gelatin eyes suddenly sharpening like hot drawn steel.

It was funny… but for a moment…Jeremiah Hobbs wasn't Jeremiah Hobbs anymore. Whether he was aware of it or not, he was someone else. Someone darker. Someone older. And someone infinitely more jaded.

And his smell.

_The_ smell.

The smell was still there.

And it was no longer belonging to the FBI agent he'd met yesterday.

And it never had.

It was funny…but for a moment…Barlavoni was suddenly frightened of Jeremiah Hobbs.

…for a moment…

…what a funny moment it was….

Suddenly, the jazzy music on the radio screamed into a crescendo. The volume tripled, ringing Barlavoni's ears and nearly causing him to drop his glass.

"Jesus!" He shouted. His eyes immediately derailed themselves from Hobbs and fixed onto the radio which sat pleasantly on his counter. The volume knob was untouched. It had gotten louder all by itself. He just stared, and as if responding to his gaze, the chorus of whining saxophones, screeching violins, and grainy, cackling voices suddenly died back down.

The song continued…back at normal volume.

There was a moment of silence.

Then…

"Hmmm….odd."

Barlavoni glanced up.

Jeremiah Hobbs was staring at the radio. He was back to normal. Whatever the hell he was a moment ago, he wasn't now. His face was back to that smiling, dull, unreadable mask that it had been when Barlavoni had opened the blinds. Whatever he had been…it was gone.

The FBI agent gently extended a long white finger and clicked the radio off, cutting off the opening measures of the next song were just starting up.

"Must've been something interfering with the signal. Hmmm, strange though."

Barlavoni shrugged off the entire past thirty seconds with another hard shot. Seven shot policy be damned, he _needed_ a drink after that little ordeal.

Mind you, he usually didn't drink this much during his Whiskey Hour, and considering that the faces of FBI Agents were melting and radios were getting minds of their own…he should really put the bottles away for another 24 hours.

Barlavoni quickly regained his composure.

"It's an old radio. One of the first models to have a tape player and a 'Record Button.'"

Hobbs smiled.

"I'm rather fond of those myself."

Slowly, Barlavoni felt himself easing back into his seat. He could feel the whiskey beginning to finally take effect, his mind easing itself into hazy, warm hammock where even the loudest sentient radios couldn't bother him.

Finally.

The perfect place for an interaction with Hobbs.

A muffled one.

"Did you want to see the evidence now, Mr. Barlavoni?"

"Hmmmm?"

"The Evidence. That I brought. Would you like to see it?"

"Oh, yeah, bring it up. Let's have a look."

Hobbs bowed again and removed a second envelop from his jacket, making Barlavoni distantly wonder just how many he had stuffed in there. Like the one before it, it was twice as thick and bound in string, the word 'EVIDENCE' written across the top in a neat cursive writing.

Barlavoni untied the string, only he kept the folder shut.

He glanced over to Hobbs.

He was smiling again.

_Teeth too white. Too straight._

His Whisky Inkling flickered.

Died.

Nothing.

He replaced his cigar into his mouth and emptied out the folder.

Instantly, a heavy load of papers slid into his lap, a lot more than he thought could fit in that little folder. Barlavoni swore, clapping his legs together to prevent them all from flooding across the floor. They were old pages. Hundreds Wrinkled like leather. Yellow like church candles. Bound in an old-fashioned binding like some sort of holy book. He flipped through it quickly and groaned at how many pages there were.

There were page numbers in the upper right corner of the pages.

He caught the last page at 340.

340 pages.

_This_ was the evidence Hobb's had gathered in _one_ day?

Barlavoni had been expecting some tacky smudged prints lifted off from a monkey-wrench or maybe one or two hairs sealed in a little plastic baggie that probably belonged to some bum on the street.

Instead…it looks like he got a rewrite of the entire freakin' Bible.

Only the cover page wasn't tattooed with inked, handwritten sentences.

It was the only page with a picture.

An emblem by the looks of it.

A five-pointed star.

Barlavoni slowly recognized it with a rising lump in his throat.

S.T.A.R. Labs.

It was a S.T.A.R. Labs Research Log Book.

"I believe your familiar…." Hobbs said finally. "With a boy known as….Cyborg."

Author's Note: Well, another piece of the puzzle humbly offered onto the board. I usually like to have a Teen Titan character making an appearance in every chapter (after all, this IS a Teen Titan Fanfic) but if I did that, this chapter would be much longer than needed. I'll post the begining of the Second Act soon involving Beast Boy, sexual innuendos, and the entertainment business sometime soon. Till next time!


	19. Intermission

**The Scarlet Sonata**

**Act II**

'_Play'_

_**click**_

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"_Ladies and Gentlemen, if I may have your attention._

_The show's half-way over, and it is our intention_

_To let you all rest, take your time, look your best_

_Walk around, stretch your legs, and enjoy this convention."_

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"_The Red Curtain's closed and there'll be a five minute break."_

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"_With the Red Curtain closing, and lights flicking on,_

_Our actors all resting and the atmosphere gone…_

_We're humbly suggesting, in fact we're __**requesting**_

_That you use this time wisely, for our show ends at dawn."_

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"_The Red Curtain's closed and there'll be a five minute break."_

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"_Oh, and feel free, on your left and your right, _

_To talk to your neighbors 'bout our show here tonight. _

_Your sums and your theories, your guesses and queries_

'_Bout our Scarlet Sonata the Symphony of Spite." _

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"_The Red Curtain's closed and there'll be a five minute break_."

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"_However, although, as you well know_

_The answers will be at the end of the show_

_In the biggest scene yet, you'll soon not forget._

_The fiery finale! The big Crescendo!"_

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"_The Red Curtain's closed and there'll be a five minute break."_

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"_The boy born of fire and rumbling thunder_

_Still remains searching in innocent wonder._

_He searches so still and will search such until_

_His soul all but collapses and falls down to blunder."_

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"_The Red Curtain's closed and there'll be a five minute break."_

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"_Anyhow, anywho, our time's much overdo._

_If you'll get back to your seats, we'll pick up from Act II._

_And with your permission, I'll now end intermission._

_Goodnight and sit tight and enjoy, all of you."_

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"_The Red Curtain opens…I bid you adieu."_

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'_Stop'_

_**click.**_


	20. Chapter 20 Act II Toccatta and Fugue

**Author's Note: **More Intrigue, More clues, More S.T.A.R. Labs, more 'xXxXxXx's'! Hooray!

**xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx**

**S.T.A.R. Labs**

**Scientific and Technological Advanced Research Laboratories**

**Bringing You Tomorrow Today**

**Here at S.T.A.R. Labs, we are always on the lookout for ways of improving the lives of the every day citizen. With the recent employment of one of the most talented surgeons on the planet, our interests can now go beyond exploring our green earth, our deepest oceans, and even the darkness of space. We now stand on the brink of the true final frontier; the human mind. **

**xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx**

'Play'

**click**

_Sssssskkkkkkkkkkktttttttttttt_

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"_Mmmmph_"

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"Mmmmuh…"

"Hmm?"

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"Mmmmmuh-Muh…!"

"Uhm…Doctor?"

"Muh-Muh! Mah-Mah! MAH-MAH! MOMEEE!!"

"Dr. Herod! Dr. Herod get over here! Hurry!"

"MOMAH! IT HURTS MAMA! I CAN'T…I CAN'T…!"

"Dr. Herod! Now! It's another dream! He's struggling! The restraints….I don't think they'll hold!"

"IT HURTS SO BAAAD! IT HURTS SO BAAAAD MOMAH!"

"Samantha! Get out of the way! Let me see him!"

"Hurry Doctor, he's going to break free!"

"IT HURTS SO BAAAAD! THE FIRE! IT HUUUUURTS!"

"I'm calling for help!"

"No Samantha! Wait! Just….wait."

"But Doctor Hero-"

"Get out of my way! Move! There now…Shhhhhh;…easy. It's all right now. Calm down. Daddy's here."

"Doctor Herod! Stand back! It's too dangerous!"

"IT HURTS! ITS…ITS EVERYWHERE! WHERE'S MOMAH?"

"Doctor HEROD! GET BACK!"

"Daddy's here, big guy. Daddy's here now. Calm down. Listen to my voice. I know you can hear me. Listen to it now. No more flames. No more hurt. Just daddy."

"I'm administering the sedatives! Get away!"

"WHERE IS…WHERE IS MY MOMMAH?"

"Shhhhhhhh….that's not important. Your father is here. That's all a child needs. Your daddy's here and he'll always be here for you. Easy now. Eas-"

**SMASH!**

**SNAP!**

**RI-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-P!**

"Doctor! He's loose! He's broken loose!"

"I'M SCARED! I'M SCARED, MOMAH!"

"He's going right at you! Doctor! Doctor look ou-"

"_Born from fire and endless thunder…lived a boy of song and slumber…"_

"MAH…MAH MAH….Mah…"

"_Lost from others he wondered asunder …always dreaming…apt to wonder…"_

"Doctor Herod…"

"_His song was his body, the melody his bone, the fire his skin, and the thunder his home. He searches for family, but why should he bother? For he may not have a Mah…but still has a father."_

"…"

"…"

"Dah…Dadeee?"

"That's right. I'm here. I'm here now. Calm down. Everything is alright."

"Dadee?."

"Daddy."

"Dad….my dadeee."

"That's right. Lie down now, sonny. Rest easy. No more bad dreams."

"My dadee….my…dadee…"

"Samantha…you may now administer sedatives."

"Doctor Herod…how…"

"Poor child. Got himself one helluva nightmare. What he needs is a good night's sleep."

"But how did you…"

"Are his vitals back to normal?"

"They're…lowering. He's calming down again. The sedatives should put him down for another good 24 hours."

"Splendid. I'll be on my way now. Tie him down again and double his bonds. Apparently we're dealing with an…inferior means of restraint. His strength has…doubled that what I've expected."

"But how the hell did you calm him down? You could have been killed!"

"Nonsense. That boy would never hurt someone like me."

"What about these outbursts? This childish behavior?"

"Minor…side-effects, Samantha. This boy's just had the left hemisphere of his brain replaced. His current mindset is apt to give him the occasional…nightmare or two. Not to worry though…one or two more months and I'll have those…troublesome things completely…repressed.

"Doctor, I'm afraid we can no longer do this."

"…"

"…"

"Do what, Samantha?"

"**This**! Your little 'experiment'. It's gone too far!"

"But Samantha…isn't it my job to-"

"Your **job**, Dr. Herod, was to create a fully functioning organism with a self-regulating integration of artificial and natural systems updated with the latest weaponry of modern war-fare. **That** was your job. **That** was what we hired you to do."

"And is that not what this boy has become?"

"No, damn it! What you've created is a sleeping, inactive atrocity with the mentality of a kindergartener! We wanted his brain to be a militarized **computer**, Dr. Herod. Capable of downloading data, analyzing threats, formulating strategies, and out-thinking enemies. That's it! No feelings, no emotions, and no damn **dreams**! I allowed you to expand our guidelines a _little_ because you said it'd be for the greater _good_. That'd it make him a **better **weapon. God, if the Labs ever knew what our project has become…"

"Samantha…"

"_What?"_

"If you recall, I specifically asked for a test subject that was in a persistent vegetative state. Incapable of simple awareness, unresponsive to all forms of stimuli, no better than a bag of rotting meat lying on a forgotten red mattress, am I right?"

"Doctor, what does-"

"Am I right, Samantha?"

"…yes. That _is_ what you requested. And _this_ subject fit _all_ those specifications."

"And to be perfectly honest, you could not have filled them out any better. If'n I recall correctly, you said he was damn near brain-dead, didn't you? Said it'd be…as waste of time."

"Well congratulations, you found a way to keep a vegetable from rotting."

"Samantha…are you aware that if I succeed in this operation…this boy will have the same mentality as he did before you carted him here? He'll _talk_ the same way, he'll _think_ the same way…he'll even _feel_ the same way. This boy has a strong spirit, Samantha. It's carried him this far and it'll carry him through the rest."

"He has a strong _what?_"

"Spirit. Soul. Essence. Call it what you will."

"Oh, _please_ Doctor, let's try to keep Church at Church shall we? The Labs prefer if we use solid, verifiable foundations to build conclusions on. As far as your research goes, the Soul should not exist."

"Hmmm, it's so easy to say that, isn't it, Samantha? I must say I had a very similar mind-set when I was a boy entering the field. They say it's what's on the _inside_ of a person that's important…that beauty is only skin-deep…but once you get through the first couple'o layers; we're all pretty much the same. One heart's no different than another…one skeleton's no better than the next…even the sanctity of our brains are anatomically identical to your neighbors. So what is it then? What is it in that watery sack of flesh that makes us human?

Now, I don't think I told anyone 'bout this before Samantha, but a little while back while I was stationed in Da Nang in Vietnam as a doctor for the troops. I was considered the best in my field and got dozens of shiny metals from the screaming colonels and sergeants I sewed up on the operating table. I saw my share of nightmares during my seven years of service, though the most horrific soldier I had to treat was carried in just two days before I was meant to be shipped back home. He was a young new recruit. I new his face well enough, though I didn't recognize him until the rest of the men in his platoon told me. Apparently he'd been ridin' in a jeep that passed between two trees with barbed wire tied 'cross them. The Charlies did that a lot y'see. Strung 'em up a single strand of barbed wire right at neck level so when a jeep would go roarin' by, _shooop!_, their heads lop off like fat, yellow dandelions. The boy had been in the passenger's seat bending down to retrieve his sunglasses when they ran through the trap. It caught the driver's face just below the nose. The jeep lost control and flipped over, crashing into a tree and bursting into flames, killing the other two young kids in the back. The boy somehow survived, but the crash had jammed his seat belt. He was forced to sit in that blazing upside-down vehicle a whole forty five seconds b'fore the others could finally cut him out.

When they got him to me his entire body was burned black and red. His nose had been crushed into his face, his right eye was burned blind, and his buzz-cut head was nearly caved like an overripe pumpkin. He went by the name Tim…and was only 19 years old. Nineteen, dammit. The boy had a father worried sick about him, a little brother who idolized him, a young fiancé waitin' for him back in the states…and here he was bleeding his rosy red guts out two days before being sent home. It just wasn't fair. I worked on him for a solid two weeks; bringing him home to a proper hospital, purchasing all the needed equipment, planning out every possible plot of events…but no matter what I did, his body just died a little more each day.

I finally discovered the problem when I got back to the states and got an X-ray of his skull. A three inch long shred of metal shrapnel had lodged itself completely into the back of his head. Jesus knows why that alone didn't kill him right then and there, but if I didn't do something about it, it was sure to anyway. I was forced to lobotomize the back of his head to remove it. The metal had lodged deep into the right hemisphere and stem of the brain impairing his simultaneous, holistic, imagistic, and intuitive functions. He was unable to tell past from present…remember who he was…or even the name of his _father_. The other doctors said removing the metal shrapnel would kill him. They said I should leave him alone and let his soul be with god. I did it anyway. I had to. I had to take the chance. I had to _try_ to save him. Funny, though, for it was there, digging amidst all those folds of grey wrinkly flesh and fluid I found what all religions had deemed impossible to find.

All alone in the dead of night with the rain thundering against the windows did I find that small little spark that separates man from beast under the end of my microscope. That tiny part of the brain responsible for self-awareness, imagination, sentiency, and the very essence of what it is to be human. The _spirit_, Samantha. I had _found_ it. And it's _beautiful_. Even in a dying boy like this, sputtering like a flame at the end of the wick, it was just so beautiful to behold. To touch. I knew the only way to save his life, to save his _soul_…was to remove the metal shrapnel altogether, despite what everyone said. The procedure critically damaged the rest of his brain, and left it in a worse condition than before…but I saved him. He was alive. All the mystique those hypocrites in our churches sell out is all wrong. They have no concept of it at all. There's nothing _immortal_ about the soul. It can be damaged, broken, and mended just like a sprained ankle. My dear, the Mind is the last frontier we have left to explore and I've already conquered it."

"And the Tim kid? What became of him?"

"…Sadly…I was unable to save him. The damage was too great, his brain was almost utterly destroyed. When he first opened his eyes in the hospital he wasn't even able to formulate a sentence. Wasn't able to remember his name… couldn't even recognize his own papa. But don't you see? If I succeed here, he could have! The cybernetic brain I gave that boy on the table there would have been able to keep his soul alive! Given it a new brain to inhabit! He would have been himself again! Don't you see the brink we're standing on? The door we can unlock?"

"But Doctor, you're just not _listening_ to me! We don't _care_ about the soul! If anything, doctor, we're looking for a way to remove it! Not find a damn cure for brain-dead boys in Nam! This isn't a public service! This is war! We're creating soldiers! We're creating portable thinking guns! We're looking for ways to end lives, not save them!"

"Not a public service? Well, correct me if I'm wrong but doesn't that little advertisement you people have going say-"

"_Fuck_ what it says! The public doesn't know _half_ of what we do in the Labs, Dr. Herod! We're responsible for more deaths every year in human testing than there are murders in this entire state! Are you aware of that? _The entire state_! If even _one_ photograph slipped to the public, if just _one_ of your little recording tapes fell into the wrong hands…it…it could be the end of the Labs as we know it! We employ only the best here, Dr. Herod! We have too much at stake here for you to go off creating these retarded misfits of yours! Fuck your son, Dr. Herod, we want a Cyborg!"

"…"

"…"

**SMASH!**

**SNATCH!**

"_GA-ACK!"_

"…"

"_Doctor…Herod! gasp…You're choking me…"_

"Samantha…let me tell you a lil' somethin' right here and now 'bout myself."

"_Please…can't…breathe…let…let…go…"_

"I like to consider myself a patient man. I enjoy simple things, I appreciate simple values, and it doesn't take that much to make me happy."

"_I…I…I…can't…"_

"However, I'm afraid that there is **one** thing…one _little tiny _thing that gets under mah skin _real_ quick. Now normally, people don't prod me that far…and normally I'm able to ignore the ones that do. But when someone comes upright and asks a father to forsake his son like a shit-dead dog on the side of the road…well, I'm liable to git a bit angry!"

"_Let…can't…gah…"_

"The bond between fathah and son is _sacred_, Samantha. To be honest I don't really expect a _woman_ to quite know the extent of it. What of that boy in Nam? Huh? What about _his_ father? Do you think _his_ father would want me to find a cure? My son is on that table and I'm going to do everything to save him. He's gonna give hope to millions."

"_But…his name…is…"_

"Now, say you're sorry to mah boy, Samantha!"

"_Help…get…away…from me…"_

"Say you're sorry or ah' swear to God I'll squeeze till I feel your spine!"

"_I…I'm…sorry!"_

"A bit louder. He needs to hear you."

"_I'm sorry! I'm __**sorreeeeeeeeeee**__!"_

"…"

"…"

"Thank you mighty, Samantha. I'll be lettin' you go now."

**Thud**

"_G-A-A-A-A-A-AH! Hack! Cough_!"

"I'm going back to my office, and I trust that these past ten minutes will be excluded in your daily reports. Tell me if my boy has another nightmare and don't forget what I said 'bout his bonds."

"…Doctor…_cough, hack…_he's not your son…"

"I have a son, Samantha, and ain't nothin' you or anyone says can prove me wrong."

"…You…can't…be…"

"Now clean up. Ya'll look a frightful mess. And be sure to turn off my recorder. Things should be quiet for the rest of the night."

"Yes…Doctor…"

"Good. Night now."

…

…

…

…

…

…

'Stop'

'click'.

**xXxXxXxXxXxXxXx**

**Central Jump City: **

"Oh yeah…that's nice…that's _so_ nice…"

"Mmmph…Oh…"

…_shuffle, shuffle, shuffle…_

"Oh! Don't! Your hands!"

…_shuffle, knock, clank…_

"Don't! Oh! Please! Oh, lower! Lower!"

…_push, shuffle, gasp, clank…_

"Don't stop! Don't! Your hands…Oh…"

…_yank, grunt, shuffle, snag…_

"…"

"…"

…_tug, tug, tug…_

"Awww…damn toilet seat."

"What's wrong? Why'd you stop?

"Sit up for a sec, will yah?"

"Why? You hear someone?"

"No, just get up for a second."

…_shuffle, clop, clank…_

"Better?"

"No. My pants are caught on the seat."

"Really?"

…_tug, tug, tug…_

"Yeah."

"Well let's just take them off…"

…_shuffle, grab, yank…_

"Hey, leggo! Not in the bathroom stall for Christ's sake!"

"Why not? We were over halfway there anyway...just hold still a second."

…_snatch, zi-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-ip…_

"Damn it, let go of that! Your hands are like ice!"

"Mr. Logan, you don't need to worry, I do this sort of thing a lot."

"I figured that much five minutes ago, now sit up."

"C'mon Garfield…you don't need to be so shy…."

"I'm not _shy,_ Cindy, I just don't wanna start anything I can't finish in ten minutes. I've still got a show to do, y'know. Hey, and I said to let go!"

"But we're celebrating your safe return from the hospital!"

"Right, and I'd rather not get reinstated for circulation being cut off to my legs, now sit up."

"_Sigh_"

"Thank you. Now I can finally get these things off zip them back up."

…_tug, tug, zi-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-ip_…

"There. I'm all set. Now if you'll…."

…_snatch, zi-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-ip…_

"_Hey, hey, hey!_ For Christ's sake control yourself! Hands stay in your lap from now on okay? New rule."

"Oh' C'mon…"

"**Okay**?"

"Sheesh, fine."

"Thank you."

…_zi-i-i-i-i-i-ip…_

"Alright, look Cindy…it _is_ Cindy right?"

"_Sara_."

"Oh. Sorry. Look, _Sara_, what I meant to say was that I think you're a nice girl and all. You're smart, you're cute, you got a _great_ ass…"

"Hey, thanks!"

"…and I just don't think that a bathroom toilet should be the first place we…well…y'know."

"We've been seeing each other for a week now!"

"Yeah, and it'd just degrade our relationship if we procreate where others defecate, now get up."

"All _right_. _Fine_."

"All right, good. I need to be getting back to the set now. My ten minute break was up two minutes ago."

"Same time tomorrow?"

"Hell no."

"I'll put you down for five then."

"Damn it. Fine."

_knock-knock-knock-knock_

"_Mr. Logan_?"

"Shit! Quiet, quiet!"

"Was that someone at the door?"

"Yes, you twit, get down!"

_knock-knock-knock-knock-knock_

"_Mr. Logan, you're wanted back on the set. You've got a message for you_."

"I thought you locked that damn door, Cindy!"

"_Sara_!"

"Whatever! Just keep quiet. Let me handle this-"

"Is that Clyde out there."

"Yeah, I think so, be quiet and let me handle-"

"He's busy right now, Clyde! Come back later!"

"Damn it, I said be quiet!"

"_Who said that? Is that you Mr. Logan?"_

"I said Mr. Logan is busy at the mome- _mmmph_!"

"Yeah, Clyde, I'll be right out!"

"_Is someone else in there with you Mr. Logan?"_

"_Mmmph!"_

"Nope! Nobody! Just me and the shits. Go away."

"_Uhm…already then. Good luck with that."_

"Bye. Later. See yah."

…

…

…

…

"Alright…I think he's gone."

"_Get…your…hand…off…my…mouth…"_

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry 'bout that."

"Yech! Your hand's all sweaty! What the hell was that all about? Stifling me like that?"

"Hey, I said I was sorry, it's just that…"

"You had your hand clamped over my mouth! You were practically choking me! Nobody's ever done that to me before! I couldn't breathe!"

"Listen, if you just let me-"

"You had me frightened for a second! Never try something like that again! Never! I found it i_nsulting_, _degrading…_and…most definitely……_exciting_ …"

"Well if you'd just hush up when I said to….wait…what?"

…_zi-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-ip…_

"Oh Christ not again!"

**Two Minutes Later**

After a grueling 120 seconds, Garfield Logan finally emerged from the Men's Bathroom with the same gait of a drunkard getting kicked out of a bar. One hand was avidly shoving the front of his shirt into his pants and the other checking his watch with a breathy, blinking stare. His hair had been tousled, his glasses were missing, and although he wasn't aware of it; lipstick smeared his lips, nose, and ears like the plague.

He blinked and lowered his hand to check for his belt.

"Shit."

Tucking in his tie and casting two cautious glances in either direction, Beast Boy leaned back towards the door and pushed it open with his foot.

"Cindy…did I leave my belt in there?"

A moment passed, before a lovely tanned hand emerged from the bathroom and dropped a black, leather belt into his hand.

"It's Sara." A voice beyond the doorway cooed.

Beast Boy whipped the belt from her hand and quickly looped it around his waist, his eyes still drifting from one hallway to the next.

"Right. Sara. Thanks. I'll call you. Tonight."

He took two steps when the tanned hand reached out and snagged him by his tie, pulling his head back into the doorway where his body visually stiffened. After a moment, he was released, his lips adorning one more smudge of _Belle de Jour_ lipstick and a rather goofy feel-good smile. Wowzers…he might call her back again just to get another goodbye like _that_.

"You got stuff on your face." The voice whispered and quickly tugged the door shut.

Beast Boy blinked, ran a hand down his face, inspected his fingers, and said 'shit' again.

**Another Two Minutes Later**

To anyone seeing Thomas Jameson for the first time, they'd probably say that he looked liked a man one faltering step ahead of a nervous breakdown. The sweat in his armpits and collar had claimed over half his blue pinstriped shirt, the skin of the back of his hand was wedged between his teeth, and all 270 cigar-sucking pounds of him was circling stage left like an off-balance merry-go-round. Every available stage-worker had already been set off to search for Garfield, leaving him alone to cast the occasional beady glance to the empty desk on center stage, the shuffling, murmuring studio audience, and the twiddling thumbs of a very uncomfortable guest star sitting alone on stage.

All waiting. All on camera.

If it weren't for the audience…he'd be screaming.

Commercial break had been over thirty seconds ago. All two-hundred somethin' million viewers of the _Garfield Logan Show_ were now watching an empty desk and a thum-twiddling guest-star. It was a nightmare that he'd almost grown accustomed to.

Almost, anyway.

When Garfield Logan finally came around the corner, Jameson had sweated himself to exhaustion. He was out of breathe from it. Christ, he was damn near fainting.

"Garfield!" He gasped. "Where the hell have you been?"

The tall, lean man didn't even look at him. He was calmly dotting his face with a wet paper towel and analyzing the stage with a gaze as cool as a cucumber. "Dysentery." He said levelly. "What's the situation?"

Jameson threw his hands up, waddling over to the entrance to the stage. "Well, besides the fact that our guest has been sitting all alone without a host to talk to for the past thirty-some-odd seconds on live television, I'd say we're doin' pretty good. Now get goin'! Your coffee has been refilled, your script is already out there, and the only thing your chair needs is your ass to sit in it! Get moving!"

Garfield Logan snatched his sports-coat from a rack. "What's the guest's name again?"

"Jim Roberts. He's a professor who makes documentaries."

Beast Boy finished buttoning his jacket and ran a smooth hand through his hair. "And what's he going to be talking about again?"

"His new movie. A documentary called 'Overcoming the Long Road Home; Stories of PVS survivors'. Damn it, you were supposed to know this."

"PVS? Sounds like a TV Station."

"Your thinking PBS and no, it means a Persistent Vegetative State. Like the state you're in whenever I try to talk to you."

"I thought we were supposed to be getting Tom Hanks on today."

"Yeah, he skipped out two days ago. Maybe he was afraid that the stage would blow up or something. This guy is the best we could get."

"Didn't you say that we were going to be hittin' the big fry after my return from the hospital?"

"Dammit, Logan, you got a cake, that's good enough. Quite your bitchin' and get out there!"

Garfield Logan tipped an invisible hat to Jameson and grinned. "Will do, Tom. See you at curtain call."

He turned to go, finally prompting Jameson to breathe a big sigh of relief when suddenly, a man popped his head in the doorway.

"Hey, Garfield! Message for you."

Jameson exploded. "Gawd Dammit, Harold! Can't it wait?"

Beast Boy simply stopped and turned, his eyes ready and homing in on the envelope the stagehand was holding. His brow was furrowed.

"Well, it looks important." Harold shrugged. "I think he should at least have a look at it."

By now, the poor guest on stage named Robert had finally decided to sit up in his chair and openly _search_ for his host. His glasses had fogged, his skin gleamed slightly with sweat, and he looked on the verge of standing on his chair and waving him over. The cameras were still rolling after all, and the poor bastard was just a common absent-minded professor. Putting him on a talk show without a host to talk to was like sex without the girl. Garfield Logan was the Life at the _Garfield Logan Show_. Without him, his guests could only shift their feet and twiddle their thumbs.

Jeez, he really was needed out there…still though…he found himself taking a slow step towards the paper Harold was holding. For some reason…that letter was suddenly important to him. Something about how Harold was holding it, talking about it. He seemed a little weirded out.

"Who's it from, Harold? Did it say?"

The Stagehand tossed him the letter. "Nope. Unsigned. It was left on my desk sometime last night and it addresses you directly. Didn't look like fan-mail so I held onto it. Kinda strange."

"My god!" A desperate Jameson burst in a second time. "We don't have time for fan-mail, non-fan-mail or any other type of damn mail! We're burning air-time here! You have to get out there now, Garfield! You can open your damn letter _after_ the show!"

Garfield bit his lip and nodded, glancing down at the letter in his hands. For a moment, he thought he detected a particular whiff of something drifting up from it. Something chilling…something familiar…but to distant to place for sure. Sighing, he shook his head and turned over in his hands.

The back of the letter has a signature centered square in the middle of it. Finely printed in curvy, black ink.

_An Important Memo to Mr. Garfield P. Logan._

-R

An anonymous letter. Just what Beast Boy needed to add to his weekend of exploding apartments and murdered secretaries. Eh, who was he kidding? It was probably nothing. Worse case scenario would have it be the jealous boyfriend of that Cindy girl he'd been necking with for the past week. He's just stressed. He'll worry about it later.

He tossed the paper back to Harold.

"I'll read it tonight." He grinned, sending a confident, smart wink to Jameson. "Right now I have a show to save."

The crowd roared with applause as Beast Boy strolled onto stage, casting several smiles and waves to the audience before he finally seated himself at his desk and shook his guest's hand for the very first time. He settled back, selected his favorite golden pen from his cup, and gave the humblest of shrugs to the audience.

"Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for your brief wait but a ABC had been kind enough to slash my tires after their attempt to blow me up didn't work out. Getting on with the show now, though, I am very pleased to introduce Mr. Jim Roberts who, for all the confused young white people out there, has recently starred in the very awe-inspiring documentary 'Overcoming the Long Road Home: Stories of PVS Survivors'. Interesting stuff, in my opinion, wouldn't you say Roberts?"

Oh yeah. He was back in the game. He took a calm sip from his coffee as the square, balding man sitting across from him swallowed and hobbled forward in his seat.

_Jeez…_ He thought. _And to think this could've been Tom Hanks…_

Ending Author's Note: Yeah…it's good to be back in the ring to throw in a few more pieces to the puzzle. I know it takes me forever to write up new chapters, despite all the mumbo-jumbo I say about trying to 'update ASAP and stuff like that'. Just so you know I WILL finish this story and I am truly thankful to everyone reviewing and reading. As Tiny Tim would say, 'Gawd bless yah. Every one."


	21. Chapter 21 Act II Raindrop Prelude

Author's Note: Went away on a trip again. Wedding this time. Pretty fun. My Uncle just bagged himself a wife and we held the ritual far east from our frozen wasteland of Nomadia all the way in the barren red desert of Hototopia (Arizona; and yes, it was hot). In any case, I'm back now and have some serious reviews to give out to some of my friends. This chapter picks up with our estranged ex-Titans, more specifically, with **one** of our estranged ex-Titans and her rather…scattered thoughts. Enjoy!

….

You were….too hard on him.

You were distant. Unsure. Impatient….

Just like last time.

He was in a worse state than you had anticipated.

His hood was up.

His eyes were down.

His tone…sad.

You know the look. You should've recognized it.

He was lonely.

And you were too hard on him.

Just like last time.

Well…just goes to show you again girl; you're no good.

With friends.

With companions.

With _men_.

Just no good at all.

You're too _vague_.

Too easily insulted.

Too _unfamiliar_ with them.

For the most part, Raven only had to deal with _boys_.

Simple, clumsy, boys.

Boys like the Boy named Steve back at the air-port, the boys who thought that becoming a man meant nothing more than getting drunk, getting arrested, and getting laid once or twice, though not necessarily in that order.

She'd been used to dealing with them….and oh, how _easy_ they were to deal with.

So clouded by a colorful, hormonal haze of stereotypes and sex that their little internal workings were as predictable and simple as a pocket-watch.

Still though, that didn't mean she _liked_ having to deal with them in the _first_ place.

She hated how she was constantly dodging them, explaining her disinterest in them, explaining _Adeline_ to them, and then having to sit there wincing at their discouraged frowns and forlorn glances as they retreated back to their ring of friends.

Sometimes she heard them call her a Flirt. Sometimes a Tease. Sometimes….something worse.

It was the same everywhere she went.

France….America…even Titan's Tower.

It wasn't fair.

Raven didn't _flirt_.

She never _teased_.

To be honest, she'd lost all faith on the whole aspect of love quite some time ago. Lost faith in the promise of sex. In the security of pleasure. In the innocence of _boys_. All gone. Left behind in the hazardous bout of tragedy and bloodshed when Adeline's father…

…died.

Romance was over-rated.

She had no use for flirting or teasing anymore.

In fact if Raven could offer some advice for all those boys she'd had the displeasure of running into; it'd be to pack up their bags and stick with dirty magazines and girls who didn't give a damn. Quite frankly, no matter what they thought, she wasn't budging an inch for them.

That was her strength.

Her forte.

But _men_…

Well…

That was already stated earlier.

She was just no good.

And _that_ was where her soft spot was.

A lot of people claim that there's a very important and universal difference between a boy and a man. Personally, Raven couldn't tell just what it was…but she was _very_ good at detecting the men who could.

Another forte.

And she didn't even need telekinesis to use it.

She could just tell.

Adeline's father had been a man.

Slade Wilson had been one as well.

And Victor Stone…

_Victor Stone?_

Yes.

Victor Stone was a man too.

She was confident in saying that.

Quite confident.

For Victor Stone...becoming a man had been important.

No…more than that.

It had become a downright _necessity_.

A personal critical _need_.

And without a father's guidance, a mother's company, and a dysfunctional group of super-powered teenagers acting as his closest replacement for siblings, there was really nobody to tell him otherwise. Nobody to tell him to slow down. Nobody to tell him to ease back.

Nobody to really prove himself too.

With all that freedom…all that _need_…how could he possibly fail?

And she liked him.

Always had.

Since she first met him.

She admired his determination. Respected his weaknesses. And was teasingly intrigued by his…rarely talked about family.

It was so strange how the two of them had ended up become friends in the first place. Cyborg, a tall, enthusiastic, big-brother with a head full of car-parts and hearty pats on the back and _her_; a hood wearing, low gazing, anti-social catalyst for the end of the world.

Sure it didn't make sense…but it happened.

The two of them.

Friends.

Good friends.

…

…

…

_Just_ friends.

…

…

…

And perfectly content to leave it as such.

Cyborg and Raven.

Saving the city side by side.

Because that was their job.

…

…

…

Then…of course…it all changed.

Over eleven years ago the very day a young man rode in on the afternoon express and proceeded to paint the town one helluva shade of red.

He was desperate. He was dangerous. And hopelessly in love…with Raven.

While he was in Jump he became renowned as a murderer, a killer, and a heartless one at that….but to Raven, he was the best thing that'd ever happened to her.

He had come offering an escape.

She'd taken it.

And, less than two days later, Cyborg had killed him.

_Cyborg_ had killed him.

To save the city.

Because that was his job.

And, as said before, everything changed.

The Teen Titans became, simply 'The Titans'.

Raven's hood was lowered and the Red Raven was promptly put to a very permanent rest.

And Cyborg…became Victor Stone once more.

It was a subtle change. A _very_ subtle change. In fact, if the two of them weren't such good odd-ball friends…she would've probably of not noticed at all. The other Titans sure didn't.

Victor Stone, she would come to learn, was a very intriguing man, and although very similar to his counter-part Cyborg…there were a few key differences.

Number one being, of course, that Cyborg…despite all his efforts and endeavors…was still just a boy. Frail beneath the metal. Cowardly at the mention of his past. Cringing at the unfamiliar.

He _was_ a Teen Titan. In every aspect of the word, a stereotypical teenage superhero. A personality adopted in leave of its predecessor and quickly shaped and molded into the typecast metropolitan crime-fighter it _needed_ to be.

Whoever Victor Stone once _was_ had been long since been driven back into the newly acquired _Cyborg's_ subconscious. Able to avoid his past by hiding behind the heroic new guise of the tall, muscular Teen Titan. His priorities reset to fighting crime rather than sorting through the blinding hot mess that'd been his life before 16.

In other words…Cyborg was Victor Stone's escape.

Now that she thought about it, there were several instances when Raven had caught a glimpse of Victor Stone during those years in the Tower.

The brief period when he developed the alias 'Stone' had been the first. The second had been the eventual defeat of Brother Blood in Steel City one or two years later. And the last…well…was when she had become the Portal and unleashed Hell upon the world. It was that expression on his face as he watched it all happen.

Those brief moments when Cyborg was a _man_.

When he was Victor Stone.

And each time these instances occurred, Victor Stone would get stronger. His presence more _known_. More willing to return. The moment just needed to be right is all.

And when Raven became pregnant, well, apparently Victor decided that _that_ was finally the best time to re-emerge.

And he did.

During the first few years of Adeline's life, Raven had one of the best stand-in fathers she could ever hope for. Victor Stone was strong, patient, and had the gentle caring of a man who'd once lived with a caring, loving family.

Up until Adeline's 5th birthday the two of them had the pleasure of getting to know Victor Stone very well. And to be honest, Raven had liked what she'd seen.

Maturity, level-headiness, loyalty… and…the willingness to sacrifice…_everything_ for what he believed in.

However…there was a catch.

A…big catch.

He was also in love with her.

…

…

Not Cyborg.

Victor.

A man.

_Not_ a boy.

And how did she feel about that?

God.

How _should _she feel about that?

Nothing she told herself could deny the fact that she was lonely. That her legs always wondered freely under the covers, her hands always resting on an unoccupied pillow when she woke up the following morning.

And that's how it'd been.

A bed with one pillow.

A dinner table with one chair.

And a body that'd fleetingly felt what it was like to be loved only once.

And how fleeting it had been.

Over eleven years ago in fact.

One night.

With someone who was dead now.

But should that night of been enough? Should one moment of ecstasy keep her satisfied for a life time? Sure Raven was never a real thrill-seeker to begin with…but being loved isn't something a person _wants_, it's something they _need_.

People need to be loved, love to give love, and love receiving love even more.

Victor Stone loves her. Question is though…does Raven love Victor Stone?

No matter what angle she approached it from, one thing always managed to hook her like a well placed fishhook to the cheek. Something she couldn't get around no matter how hard she tried. Something she could never forget even with all these years that'd drifted by.

Adeline's father.

Her lover.

Her _first_ lover.

His death…his _murder_…had always been a difficult bump to get over. She'd still cry about it every so often. Sometimes when it was raining she'd lock her bedroom door and lie in bed for hours staring at nothing at all. It was always when it was raining. Rain just made her think of him. That's what she'd tell Adeline whenever she'd catch her crying.

'_Mommy…why are you crying?'_

'_It's just the rain, Adeline_. _It just makes me a little teary sometimes.'_

'_Why?_'

'_Because…it means someone up in heaven misses you.'_

'_Who misses you mommy?'_

'…_Nobody…Adeline. Nobody…" _

Nobody.

Could Raven love the man who killed her daughter's father?

Raven had promised that she'd gotten over it. That all her judgments and thoughts wouldn't be hazed and distorted by a veil of tears and regret. Adeline's father was killed because he was dangerous.

He had murdered many people. And he would've killed a lot more to succeed with his plans.

No life meant anything to him except hers.

He was so dangerous…

But he loved her. And no matter what…she loved him to.

No matter what.

She's over it now.

Eleven years have passed.

How could his face still stifle her affection for Victor Stone?

Because Victor Stone killed him?

But that wasn't true.

Cyborg killed him.

Cyborg, the short-tempered, passion-driven, teenage superhero that'd been her friend for those five years in Titan's Tower. Cyborg, who killed Adeline's father in a bout of unsuppressed desperate rage. Cyborg, who would sacrifice anything to keep the illusion of being an immortal Teen Titan going, shrouding the fires of his past.

But Cyborg was no longer here. Victor Stone had replaced him once again. Thanks to Adeline. Thanks to _her_.

Victor Stone….who loved her.

Love. What a pain.

Love was so damn confusing. Able to make a fantastic mess of things and give nothing in return except the fleeting hope that it will still be there tomorrow. That's why Raven gave it up in the first place.

Still……

_Do you find Victor Stone attractive?_

Sure

_Do you find him likable? _

Definitely.

_Could you have raised Adeline without him?_

Definitely not.

_Can you get over the fact that he killed Adeline's father?_

…yes.

_Does he love you?_

Yes.

_Then why'd you move away?_

…….

…….

_Raven, why did you move away? _

I…don't know…

_Raven, are you __**sure**__ you've gotten over the fact that Victor killed Adeline's father?_

Victor Stone didn't kill him. Cyborg did. Out of desperation. Out of fear.

_He was Victor Stone when you left. But who is he now?_

…

…

…

…

She wasn't sure.

She'd been gone a quite a while.

They haven't seen each other in so _long_.

His hood was up.

His eyes were down.

And your _dream_…

You don't know _who_ he is right now.

Was he still Victor Stone? Cyborg? Someone else altogether?

You don't know anymore.

…

….

….

….

…

Just goes to show you again.

You're no good with men.

With men, _or_ with Victor

Just no good.

…_but you like him anyway…_

There were two quick knocks on the door.

Raven's head jerked back up.

She was back in her guest room.

Her suitcase open…and still unpacked.

She really hadn't moved for the past couple of minutes.

She'd been lost in thought.

Two more knocks.

"Adeline?" She called, rising to her knee and adjusting her collar.

A voice called from the other side of the door. A man's.

"Willy Dunbar, Miss. Got a minute?"

Raven ran a hand through her hair, nodding to herself and glancing over to her watch.

_Three and a half-minutes. _ She mused._ Must be setting a record for World's Longest brain fart. _

She stepped across the carpet and pulled open the door. The elderly limo-driver stood on the other side, profiled perfectly in the frame like some sort of well-dressed, still standing pendulum. It seemed strange how tall he was. It was the first time she really got a good look at him. For the first time, Raven realized just how _old_ he was. His cheeks were pruned and forested with whiskers that seeped all the way down to his collar while two small marble-like eyes glinted behind his tiny pair of perfectly round spectacles. He looked at least mid seventies, but was as sharp as a razor and about as cold as one too.

What a helluva grandpa he'd make, Raven couldn't help thinking. Giving his grandchildren joyrides down crowded city streets in his big shiny limo while reminiscing about his days in Vietnam and periodically yelling 'Queer, Jack-ass, and Commie' out the open window at the cars they fly by. Lucky kids. It was hard to get grand-fathers like that nowadays.

"Good evening, Mr. Dunbar." She grinned a little breathlessly.

_Breathlessly?_

Willy Dunbar took a slight step forward, not returning her smile. With a little flourish of white gloved hands he slipped off his cabbie hat and gave her a nod of the head.

"Returned back to you, Miss." He said. "Just came up here to return something to you. You left it in the Limo."

He held out her purse. Almost smiled.

Raven took the purse pertly from his hands and adjusted it under her arm, tried to grin in return.

But didn't.

"Thanks." She said. "Thanks a lot."

She moved to shut the door.

"He's a shy one, isn't he?"

She stopped. Opened to door again.

Willy shrugged and tilted his head towards the stairs, slipping his hat back on. "That boy. Cyborg. Shy. Just sayin'."

Raven cleared her throat. "He's not a boy anymore, Mr. Dunbar. Goodbye now."

She moved to close the door again.

"He likes you, y'know."

Again…she stopped.

"He likes you a lot."

Raven pushed open the door once more, slowly this time.

Willy was staring back at her. Smiling just a little. It made him look entirely different.

_How could he know…_

_No. He couldn't. He's guessing._

"Mr. Dunbar," Raven cleared her throat. "Victor and I were Teen Titans together. We both like each other. We're family. We're friends."

Dunbar shrugged again. "Well, just thought it might mean somethin' a little more. On his part anyways. Just sayin' is all."

Raven nodded, still half-way behind the door. _Great._ She thought._ The limo driver's even picking up on it…_

"Well, I appreciate that and thanks again for my purse." Raven said, inching the door shut once again. "I need to be getting back inside."

Dunbar grabbed the door. Held it open.

"Would it be any of my business to ask who the father was?"

Although Raven should have been angry, something panged deep in backwash of her mind. A hallow little prickle of discomfort she'd felt before.

_You're over it._

She turned only slightly. "He's dead."

"Oh." Dunbar blinked. "So I take it that fellow downstairs is just a friend?"

Another prickle of discomfort.

"Look, what do you want, Mr. Dunbar?"

Dunbar shrugged and fished something out of his pocket.

"Nothin' really. He told me to give you this is all."

The elderly taxi driver extended his hand and opened it.

"Hope you like horror movies."

Raven glanced down at his offering, then back up. "Movie tickets? Victor told you to give me…movie tickets?"

"Two showings to Wicked Scary III. It's been a pretty successful franchise if you're into that sorta thing."

Raven again eyed the tickets. "We've met."

"The show's set for 7:00 this evening at the old Baxter Theatre in the East District. They have good popcorn."

"Movie tickets." She said again.

_Is Victor asking me out on a date? That doesn't sound like him…_

"I'm sorry, Mr. Dunbar, but I'm going to have to go talk to him about this." Raven opened the door fully and began to walk by. "Excuse me."

Instantly, Dunbar slid in front of her.

"He's shy though." He repeated quickly. "You can't go off confronting him about it. Must of taken him some guts just to ask _me_ to give them to you. If you want my opinion, Miss, act like you gave _him_ the tickets. That'll probably keep things on the casual side. That's what you young folks are into right? Casual?"

Raven moved to get past him again, and again, the limo driver slid into her path. "Really Miss." He said. "Trust me on this. He's shy."

Raven glanced up. _Shy? Victor_?

Raven knew for a fact that Victor Stone was _not_ the shy type. Not shy, not bashful, and definitely not afraid of doing things himself. Why would he send Dunbar up here like a pageboy? That sounded more like something he would have done twelve years ago. Something….

…Cyborg would have done….

Raven glanced back up at Dunbar again.

"Where is he right now?"

"Downstairs at the table still brooding from your last exchange there. He's beatin' himself up over something he said by the looks of it."

Raven glanced down at the tickets again.

Movie tickets.

A date.

_I really shouldn't…not now…I should take some time. Clear things up. Get my mind straight…give us some time to talk._

"This'll probably give you two a good chance to talk." Dunbar grinned. "I've watched that movie twice now. Love them gutsy flicks. Love 'em."

Raven blinked. Did Dunbar just read her mind?

"How long is it?"

"Bout an hour and a half."

"When does it start?"

"Seven."

"Seven is Adeline's bedtime."

"I'll tuck her in."

"I don't have a ride."

"I'll provide them both ways."

"I don't have anything to where…"

"Go casual."

_You really shouldn't…_

_You're no good with 'em. _

_Just no good…_

"Fine. Tell him I said fine."

Dunbar scratched his nose and shrugged. "Good, good. Maybe that'll get him out of that stooper he's been in."

Raven shook her head, not entirely listening. She was going on a date. A movie date. What was she, fifteen? And to a horror movie no less.

"Just promise to tuck Adeline in. You know how to read a good bed-time story?"

"I'll have you know I used to do Shakespeare, Miss."

"Good. Read Adeline two chapters from whatever book she's reading currently. I don't really remember just which one it is now."

"_The Love of Marie Don Lamontte_. Read it myself. Kinda mature wouldn't you say?"

"Just read her two chapters, and make sure her light is out when you leave, alright?"

"Scout's honor ma'am."

"Good. I'm going to go back to unpacking now."

Dunbar bowed and readjusted his cabbie hat. "Very well, Miss. Just don't go mentioning this to him. Act like you've been planning this all along now. Promise?"

Raven rolled her eyes and raised her left hand. "Scout's honor. Thanks again for the purse."

Another bow. "Cost me nothing. And talk to Hex if you need anything."

Raven was about to respond but Dunbar shut the door and was gone, his footsteps rattling down the hard-wood stairs.

She turned her back to the door, looking at her ticket.

A date.

She, Raven-mother of one, writer of a soon to be successful book, ex-Teen Titan…was going on a date in several hours.

It took her a moment to recognize the feeling she got right then, but later, when she would later think back about it…she knew exactly what it was.

But not right now.

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"Excuse me, Victor."

Cyborg's head was on the dining table. He hadn't moved for the past ten minutes either. There was an empty shot-glass tipped over next to him and more than a couple bottles from Beast Boy's wine collection accompanying as well. To be frank, he felt like shit.

"Go away, Dunbar. I need to be alone."

"Raven just spoke to me."

He raised one human eye over his forearms. "What did she say?"

He heard Dunbar's hand on the table, and suddenly, a small piece of paper was dropped in front of his face.

"She told me to give you this."

Cyborg straightened, snatching the small tag off his nose.

"Wicked Scary III?" He asked, astonished. "Raven told you to give me movie tickets?"

The old limo driver simply shrugged. "Yep. Best that you don't bring it up directly though. Act like you gave her the tickets. It helps keep things casual. That's what you folks like, right? Casual?"

Ending Author's Note: Well, that wraps up this chapter good enough, I hope. In any case, if you're reading this and you're on my favorite's list, it means that I'm currently working on a review for your story as well. I apologize for my absence, but I AM a nomad after all…..

Oh well. Until next time! Leave a review!


	22. Chapter 22 Act II Swan Lake Part I

Author's Note: Okay, my computer isn't working worth crap. This will be the fifth time I've tried posting this damn chapter and if this doesn't work, then I'm just gonna throw an honest to goodness Nomad-freezing-fury-fit. Anyway, Jinx again...and some memories from times long past...OOOOOH! In any case..try to enjoy. It's Thanksgiving after all.

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"_Are you in there somewhere? Floatin' around? Can you hear me in there? Recognize my voice? See me standing here? Remember me? Say my name? Call me…daddy? Call me daddy once again? Can you? Won't you? …please…"_

"…_for daddy…"_

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**MIRACLE SURGERY PERFORMED! **

**Supposed 'Fatally Wounded' Vietnam Soldier Miraculously Saved from Death by Amazing Surgical Genius of Local Platoon Surgeon. Soldier Expected to Re-Awaken any day!**

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"_Look! His eyes are opening."_

"_Son? Can you hear me?"_

"…"

" _Son! My boy! Look at me! Look at me son! It's daddy! It's daddy, son!"_

"_**..."**_

"_Son! Say something! It's daddy! He's come for you!"_

"_**..."**_

"_Say something, damn it! Don't you recognize me? I'm your father! I've come back for you!"_

"_**..."**_

"_Sir, I think you'd better give him some time. He's just woken up from a very traumatic experience, it might be wise to give him some room."_

"_Son! Son! Look at me! It's dad! Say something to me! Call me daddy! Call me daddy again! Please!"_

"_**..."**_

"_Sir, calm down, just give him some ti-"_

"_Get your fucking hands off me! Son! My boy! Look at me! For Christ's sake say something! Say something to me, dammit! Call me daddy! Call me Father! Say my name again! Please! Pleeeeeeeaaaase!"_

"…"

"_Sir, calm down! Get away from him! Briggs, call security, he's getting out of control."_

"_Please! Please say something! My Boy! My Son! Say something! SAAAAY SOMETHING!!!!!"_

"_**...who…who…are…you?"**_

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**MIRACLE SURGERY CONSIDERED A FAILURE!  
**

**Medical World was Shocked by the Results of What was Said to be the Single Most Miraculous Surgery Ever Performed on Critically Wounded Vietnam Soldier Yields Unsatisfactory Results.**

"**The Boy's memory and intelligence has suffered greatly." Nurse states. "We doubt he'll survive the next few weeks." **

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"Doctor? What are you still doing in here? It's almost eleven. Hospital visiting hours ended at nine."

"I know what I did wrong."

"What?"

"…I can fix him, Todd. I can fix him now."

"Doctor, the surgery failed. Let it go."

"I can fix him. I know what I did wrong. I can make it _work_ nowTodd It was so simple. It's so damn simple! I don't know why I didn't think of it before!"

"Doctor, he's as good as dead. All that boy does is sit there and whistle all day. There is no way he can survive any more digging around in that head of his. Brain damage like that _cannot_ be fixed. Now I'm gonna have to ask you to leave this room right now. That boy needs sleep."

"I'm gonna fix him, Todd. I'm going to try the Surgery again. I have to."

"Doctor Herod….If you don't leave right now, I'm afraid I **will** call security."

"He's got a strong spirit, Todd. I know he'll survive it. He's come this far. He can last longer a little bit longer."

"I'm asking you nicely. Please. Just let it go. The War's over, the Fighting is over, and all your Surgery's are over. Retire, Doctor. Retire early and just pull this boy's plug and get it over with."

"Pull the plug?"

"It's what he would have wanted."

"Hey, Todd?"

"Yes, Doctor?"

"C'mere for a moment."

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**LOCAL HOSPITAL BURNS TO THE GROUND! **

**At Approximately 11:00, St. Mary's Hospital Caught Fire, Causing Hopeless Damage to the Structure and Killing 200 Occupants, including renown Dr. Todd Satchell, who Assisted in the Failed Miracle Surgery of the Vietnam Soldier. The Body of the Soldier, a 19 year old nicknamed 'Tiny Tim', was not Accounted for during the Aftermath.**

"**This was no accident." Local Fire-Chief States **

**The Surgeon Responsible for Initial Surgery Nowhere to be Found. **

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"_Born from fire and endless thunder…lived a boy of song and slumber…"_

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**S.T.A.R. Labs**

**Scientific and Technological Advanced Research Laboratories**

**Bringing You Tomorrow Today**

**Just to take under advisements for all those aspiring geniuses out there, S.T.A.R. Labs is announcing Open Doors Day! We're scouring the country for the right young men and women needed to carry out the ground-breaking, monumental achievements just waiting to be unlocked behind our logo! If you've got what it takes, give us a call at the number at the bottom of your screen. State your name and occupation and how you think you can offer your services to help complete the mind-boggling projects we daily undertake here at the Labs. Our phones are available, folks! Making a better world for you sons and daughters all starts by making a difference!**

**S.T.A.R. Labs**

**Bring You Tomorrow Today**

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

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Jinx was in the shower right now, hot as it would go. Her grey skin pink, her pink hair flat, her yellow eyes…closed.

It felt good.

Hot showers felt good.

They helped her forget the day. Helped forget those fevered hands clamped on her ass, those fat tongues roaming down her naval, all those names she had to remember.

That golden paycheck on the kitchen table.

That small plastic baggy of Mr. Nobody's magic snuff dust hidden under the pillow in her room.

It helped her forget it all.

Hot showers hurt.

She liked that.

It helped.

You don't give a damn about anything when you're in a really hot shower. Nothing. You could just sit there for hours in that thick, sticking steam and not even pop open the shampoo.

Jinx often did just that.

Usually after she'd got a few good minutes in with Mr. Nobody's little plastic baggies and a CD of Mozart blaring over her stereo, Jinx would often find herself crawling into the shower, red-eyed, red-nosed, wheezing like a deflating balloon, breathless at the rainbow of colors that'd bleed across her vision, at the endless hissing sensations that'd seep down her back and throb in her pelvis like wildfire. Sitting there for hours on end, till the hot-water ran out and the next door neighbors would start pounding on the door.

But that's just how Jinx was.

The shower was her safe haven.

She needed them.

Even before she met Mr. Nobody under the Downtown Bridge.

Even before she met Kid-Flash…

_Jinx, you glob-pokin' pussbag, you're hogging the shower!_

_Push off, Gizmo, some people actually have hair to wash!_

_Jinx, this is Mammoth. I'm agreeing with shorty on this one. You're taking way to long. We've just gotten into this H.I.V.E Academy and you're gonna get us all kicked out because you're wasting water!_

_You don't understand, Mammoth! I need this!_

_Why? You birthing a baby in there or what?_

_Yeah! What are you? Some kind of pencil-sucking horny whore?_

_You just don't understand!_

_Jinx, you really oughta get out…or at least unlock the door and let me in there. I gotta take a piss._

_And some of us actually have to use the cruddy, smuddy shower too you dingy snot-cleaner! Why are you taking so prickin' long?_

_I can't explain it! I just need this shower! You don't understand it! You just don't understand!_

That's always how it'd been.

They didn't understand.

Nobody understands. _She_ didn't understand really why she'd spend so long in the shower, especially since she'd never really _do_ anything while she was in there. A mystery she guessed.

And that was a good thing.

At least she could take_small _comfort in knowing that there were at least some aspects of her personality that still had no rhyme or reason to it. When you're a working girl like she was you often find yourself holding on to any sense of mystique you have left. Trying to convince yourself that those overweight, suit wearing business men in their foggy glasses throwing fifty-dollar bills at you just so you'd try to swallow your own fist aren't getting past the first few pages of your Life's Big Book when they finally have their way with you. They judge your book by its cover but they're only really interested in the pop-up pictures. There'll always be a couple of chapters they'll never read. A couple of passages that are as innocent as you remember them to be and will go untouched until the day you die. Until then, you've still got some jaded ambiguity about you, some good ol' fashioned feminine flair that carries you to a flirty league of your own.

For a working girl, that was quite an accomplishment.

She prided herself in that.

There'll always be an audience somewhere that'll love you; you just gotta seek them out first.

Jinx had found her audience, and now, _she_ was the one in control once again.

Nothing was better than being the one holding the leash. Jinx had thought that _before_ she came to the red light district and had since then turned that into the very words she lived by, especially since her job had more than once involved actual leashes….damn role-playing.

Overall, though, Jinx was happy with who she was. Sure there were some…unfortunate detours her life had taken, but she'd come veering back. She'd gotten back on top. God she was so good at that. So damn good.

She had this district wrapped around her finger. It didn't matter that she worked for Mr. Shakespeare, that she came running to his whistle, would fondle his Macbeth for a few days off. It was all an illusion. Whatever she wanted, Shakespeare would provide. If she wanted a new fur coat, he'd get it for her. If she didn't like a certain customer, he'd get Jazz to give him a new pair of concrete shoes and leave him to consult the other 'problem customers' at the bottom of the Macky River.

Jinx was just too damn good.

Some very important people with very important names would come visiting the _Devil's Tongue_ on a daily basis _just_ to have a little one-on-one with Shakespeare's favorite pink-haired mystery girl. It was because of _her_ that Mr. Shakespeare was so well connected in neighboring cities. It was because of _her_ that Mr. Shakespeare's numerous snuff-peddlers had so many high-paying red-nosed customers from out of state to barter with every week-end.

Jinx was _so_ important that Mr. Shakespeare wouldn't even lay a hand on her when she misbehaved. Most of the other girls in Mr. Shakespeare's part of town usually adorned one or two scars on their cheeks from one of Shakespeare's pointy diamond rings he had running down the knuckle of his punching arm. Not her though. He couldn't afford to ugly her up.

Mr. Shakespeare may be the one who gives her a paycheck, but if you look closely, it was Jinx who was working the strings, Jinx who eased her influence over Shakespeare like a silken blanket over a sleepy child.

Don't get the wrong idea, though, she wasn't _nearly_ stupid enough to make her position of power known to her would-be employer; after all, a dog's a lot less cuddly when it realizes that _you're_ the only one capable of opening the front door so it can go take a crap on the lawn. Jinx let Shakespeare take _all_ the time in the lime-light while she spent her time with the lights _out_. That's how it needed to be. Shakespeare's ego was the biggest crack in the whole damn dam and Jinx had all ten fingers shoved in to keep it from crumbling.

Sure Mr. Shakespeare had a vague awareness of the amount of control Jinx held over him, but there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. He couldn't get rid of her, he couldn't even lay a hand on her. All he could do was run to the end of his chain and bark.

Again, Jinx was the one holding the leash.

Again, she was the one on top.

God, she was _so_ good at that.

And Barlavoni?

Hah.

That out-dated, cigar-smoking Pit-bull?

Just another puppet swinging around at the whim of the puppeteer. No different from Shakespeare aside from the fact that she pulled the strings to this marionette over the phone.

Without her, Barlavoni would lose his eyes and ears to the entire Downtown Slums District and would lose all ties to the infamous dealings of Mr. Shakespeare. That's what gave Jinx that control she loved so much.

Apparently, Barlavoni and Mr. Shakespeare had quite a history together in Chicago before the latter skipped town one day and high-tailed it over to Jump where he got himself settled down. Jinx never really knew how involved their rivalry got, but it was enough for Barlavoni to come roaring him, and as soon as he climbed his way to position of Police Chief, busting Mr. Shakespeare's ongoing drug cartel in the Downtown District had always been the biggest, meatiest goal.

However, before _she_ came along, all he could really do was flounder about like a blind-man in a boxing match. Shakespeare could predict the Police Chief's every move so long as they were directed in his little Downtown playground. Barlavoni's men would explode into a ware-house, guns blazing, and come up with only a couple empty boxes, and one or two stoners while across the river, Mr. Shakespeare shook hands with the Mr. Sunglasses, the biggest drug-dealing name in Steele City. Jinx usually would be there to, mouth-hugging all of Mr. Sunglasses's men as a token of good intentions on Shakespeare's behalf in lucrative hopes to lure one or two of them back for a more_personal_ ride.

Hook, line, and sinker.

For a while, business for Shakespeare blossomed while Barlavoni waded through inaccurate information and limp, worthless leads.

Not surprisingly though, that all changed.

One evening, while Jinx was walking home from work, a squad car peels up behind her and Barlavoni himself opens the door nabs her right off the sidewalk, booking her down to an old drive-in theatre and offering her a very…intriguing proposition. Apparently, not only was that old Chief of Police smart enough to figure out that Mr. Shakespeare was as good as a horse-less Merry-Go-Round without _her_, but he_also_ picked up a bit of history on her back when she wore the uniform and realized that her loyalties were apt for the…changing.

His offer was simple; leak some juicy info on Mr. Shakespeare's big drug-deals and he'd give her a paycheck _triple_ that of what was inside one of her standard little golden envelopes.

Before Jinx knew it, she had a shiny new cell phone with the Police Chief's number, a new paycheck with a fat wad of greens inside, and a brand new puppet she could toy around with.

What fun.

Was she worried about Shakespeare finding out?

Of course not.

It was very difficult to get into Mr. Shakespeare's little Shakespearean circle, but once you were in, a blind eye was turned and you were allowed to do just about whatever the hell you wanted to. As long as it _looked_ like you were acting like the person Mr. Shakespeare _wanted_ you to be, he'd never suspect you of treachery in a thousand years. Surely someone as _important_ as Jinx, whose _sole_ aspect of happiness was _obviously_ satisfied by her routine bouts of sex, wouldn't go and betray her partner, employer, and _friend_ for a fatter paycheck, right?

Of course right.

That's what Jinx wanted him to think.

So that's what he thought.

Puppet and Puppeteer.

Soon, with her help, Barlavoni started busting into the _right_ warehouses at the_right_ times and Mr. Shakespeare was _quickly_ losing customers. Mr. Sunglasses from Steele City ended up having a bullet put clean through the left lens of his shiny, sleek namesake from Barlavoni himself during The Big Crackdown last year. This alone effectively put all major exchanges between Jump and Steele City to a screeching halt for the next four months. The Big Crackdown had been a complete disaster for Shakespeare; luckily, Jinx had a pre-planed getaway all set up and managed to drag Mr. Shakespeare out of there safely before things got too hairy. Much to Barlavoni's frustration, Mr. Shakespeare escaped certain death that day and would live to have his picture occupy the Police Chief's dart-board for a little bit longer. Unbeknownst to him, of course, was that Shakespeare's survival was all thanks to his very own mole that'd leaked the info in the first place.

Convoluted?

Yeah, maybe a little, but as Jinx saw it, she couldn't go allow one puppet to cut the strings of the other while the performance is still going.

To keep Mr. Shakespeare afloat, Jinx usually would let most of his drug-deals after the Big Crackdown go uninterrupted. This not only kept her paycheck steady, but it also helped her boss calm back down and build enough confidence to set up bigger and bigger exchanges with bigger and bigger names from other cities. Names that would cause Barlavoni to pay bigger and bigger bucks to nab.

In the end, it was more of a balancing act to Jinx than a puppet show. Trying to keep both sides equally balanced, not leaning too far towards one or the other in fear that one might disappear altogether and she'd fall plummeting from the rope.

But she was Jinx.

She was good at staying on top.

She was _so_ damn good at staying on top.

She didn't need to worry.

Besides, this latest case didn't even involve Mr. Shakespeare.

Apparently, all those murders speckling the headlines have drawn the Police Chief's gaze elsewhere, giving Shakespeare some breathing room and herself a couple of new assignments.

A serial killer, eh?

Sounded exciting.

She'd seen a lot of movies in her time (Mr. Limp was a regular customer of hers and always would bring her to the Baxter Theatre for whatever slasher movie was playing before bringing her back to his estate in East Jump and living up to his name) so she'd been exposed to every possible stereotype she'd be up against. Slashers were all basically the same once you get a good look at their résumés. Firstly, you have to get involved with _them_ before they get involved with _you_. She should be safe so long as she was careful and didn't get too close. Still though, that meant she'd have to do this one solo. Her puppets couldn't help her here. This was real detective work. Time again to hide her hair underneath a baseball cap, put on her dusty, brown overcoat, and tape down her money-makers. It was a pain in the ass to disguise herself as a man, but a nice ass in a mini-skirt would turn heads, maybe the _wrong_ head. She needed to be invisible, and she knew just the way to do it.

Jazz had said that the sightings-

_Sightings? C'mon, what is he, some sort of wild animal?_

-had been reported in the Old Town district. That'd be a good place to start. Not a lot of people knew Old Town very well. That place was a graveyard, a reliquary of once-beautiful buildings fogged over with death and decay. Not even Shakespeare had men who traveled down into Old Town. Only ghosts lived there; dressed in greasy rags, eyes hazed like glassy marbles, broom-handle thin limbs ready to carry them swiftly out of sight as soon as they see you coming.

Mr. Shakespeare called them 'Rattlers' because of the hissing way they drew breath through those rosy, cracked lips. How had he described them?

_It's like they've died of thirst years ago but still keep breathing. They're so loony they don't even know they've died. Stay away from them, you hear me Jinx? Stay away from the Rattlers._

The Rattlers were the sole inhabitants of Old Town. The dry bones inhabiting their silent, still coffins. A quiet bunch for the most part, partly because the majority of them were flat out insane. Old Town was the best the Down Town Slums District had to an insane asylum. Once the gears start rusting and the faulty wiring started short-circuiting, the denizens of the Slums would one by one find their way to Old Town. Law, logic, and even a moral sense of right and wrong didn't exist there. It was a waste-land of skeletal buildings and gutted vehicles. In a way, though, it was probably the safest spot to put a bunch of wheezing insane old men.

Someplace where everyone else couldn't see them.

Jinx had received a good 14alking' to about the proper way of entering Old Town. As part of his duty as her meaty, Italian body-guard Jazz took it upon himself that, heaven forbid, should Jinx ever found herself lost in that dusty, abandoned wasteland, she'd have the know-how be able to weave her way out scotch-free without a back full of knives and broken beer bottles. He had a list of rules that he'd made her memorize.

1: Never talk to any Rattlers

2: Never go _near_ any Rattlers

3: Never go into any buildings where there might _be_ Rattlers.

4: Never bring anything of potential value….

Blah, blah, blah.

She couldn't really remember the rest. Big whoop.

Jinx had exchanged blows with the Teen Titans, the H.I.V.E., the Brotherhood of Evil, and more than a fair share of cops. A few skinny, dusty nutjobs weren't going to be enough to take a wild-card like _her_ down. Not the Puller of Strings.

She was too damn good.

Finding this guy would be a cinch. A big muscle-bound guy like Barlavoni described wouldn't be hard to spot in that joint. He'd stick out like a sore thumb amongst those strolling bags of skin and bone. She'd find him alright. She'd find him, and she'd call him in.

She'd get him….

She'd win.

But….

Of course….

That's if the killer even was in the Old Town to begin with.

That's if…the killer was a stranger who she'd never seen before.

That's if…the killer was someone everyone _thought_ was the killer.

And that's never how it went in the movies.

That's never how it would end up.

_Cyborg…I'm sure it was Cyborg who came running out of that Antique shop…I'm sure…I'm __**sure**__…_

The killer was never who you thought it was.

He was someone different.

Someone….closer…..

Someone she'd never suspect in a hundred years….

That's always how it was in the movies….

_You were running out of there pretty fast. It looked like you sure enough. Looked just like you. Running out of there like some sort of criminal…like some sort of __**something**__…_

She'd get him.

No matter what.

She'd win.

Jinx finally opened her eyes….and turned off the shower.

But first she needed a ride.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Ten Minutes Later

xXxXxXxXxXxxXxXxXx

"_My car, Jinxie?"_

"Yes, Jazz, I need it."

"_Don't __**you**__ have a car of your own?"_

"It's at Darnell's shop and God knows when that fat loafer will find the time to fix it. C'mon, I'll return it to you before midnight."

"_By my car? I already told you; those douchebag Marlings busted it all up last weekend! It's in no shape to-"_

"Does it still run?"

"_Well…yeah."_

"Then I can use it."

"_God dammit, it's just not __**safe**__, though, Jinxie! What are you gonna use it for?"_

"What else, meathead, I'm driving off East Jump to visit a client."

"_Who?"_

"Fleagle."

"_Him? That'll be the third times this week, Jinx! Fleagle never goes three times in a week! His wife get's suspicious"_

"His wife's just left him. Let me borrow your car."

"_Jinxie, you know Mr. Shakespeare told me to-"_

"Mr. Shakespeare,_Jazz_, is getting beat-back wasted in his apartment watching the ball-game and counting twenties. He's not worried about me at all."

"_But Crystal…"_

"-Disappeared far from where I'm going.

"…_I…don't know…"_

"Jazz…just let me come over there and borrow your keys. No big deal here."

"…_I'm going with you."_

"I don't think Fleagle's into threesomes, Jazz, sorry."

"_That's too bad for him. I'm coming or else you're walking to East Jump. That's final."_

A beat.

"Fine. Come by my apartment and we'll talk."

From the other end of the line, Jazz sighed.

" _I'll be by in ten. And don't think I've forgotten about our date!"_

Jinx rolled her eyes. "I know, I know. I haven't either. Bye."

"_See you in-"_

She hung up.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Another…ten minutes later

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Jinx was fully dressed up when Jazz honked the car horn from the street. She stuck her head out the window and waved to him. He waved back and pulled into the curb, his car squealing like a stuck pig. He hadn't been kidding. Those Marling brothers really kicked the shit out of that ride of his. Smiling to herself, she pulled on her baseball cap and snatched up her purse, glancing through her tools of the trade.

Her spy gear.

Her old-school toys.

_Camera_

_Note-pad_

_Pencil_

_Pen_

…_loaded 9mm._

…

Yeah.

_S_o some things_had_ changed….

Chuckling, she shouldered her purse and headed for the door, tugging down her baseball cap once again and hitting the lights.

The late October darkness had come early this year, and it was just approaching sundown when Jinx finally got outside. The sky was bleached over with a bland wash of cold grey clouds that melted into the watery sunrise on the horizon of skyscrapers at the murky far end of town. A cold breeze billowed down the streets, running right up Jinx's pant-legs like the nipping feet of a dozen little mice

Jazz was parked next to the curb, absently reading a cook-book while Billy Joel blared over the radio. He was dressed in a dirty, grey muscle-shirt, his spiky, black hair hidden under a fuzzy woolen cap. He looked unhappy. He wanted her to know that by his scowl.

He didn't want to be here…

But she had asked him to.

So he had.

Whatta softie.

Jinx quickly jogged over the car, opening it up and hastily plopping herself down into the passengers seat before the AC got sucked out.

She shouldn't have worried.

Jazz's car didn't have AC.

It didn't even have mirrors. Instead of a wind-shield there were several large spider-web of cracks and the speedometer and odometer dials gouged out like hollowed eyeball sockets, leaving a tangle of wires and cables hanging out across the dash.

Empty beer cans and broken whisky bottles clanked and rattled on the floor as the car idled patiently. It was impossible to tell how old they were.

The car smelt horrible

Sounded worse.

Jazz glanced over at her.

Grimaced.

"What's with the getup, Jinxie? Fleagle suddenly into the 'homeless bum' look?"

Jinx said nothing, tossing her things into the back and readjusting her cap. Figures that Jazz'd be too devoted to give her some breathing room with his car. He's too protective. To love-struck.

Damn Italians.

"It's part of a role playing game. Gets him off." She said simply. A lie.

"Role-playing? I thought you hated role-playing."

"I do." The truth.

Jazz sighed and leaned back in his seat. "Well, just tell me where you're going and I'll get you there. Fleagle lives on the far side of East Jump, right? Half-hour ride if traffic agrees with us. I know the place"

"It's late, Jazz."

Jinx's tone made the Italian's head turn. He blinked, looked at her…then knowingly smiled and turned back to the road. "Sorry, Jinxie, there's no way I'm giving you the wheel. Mr. Shakespeare told me to keep a good eye one you, and Christ on a crutch, that's what I'm gonna do."

Jinx sighed. "C'mon, Jazz! You don't need to drag yourself all the way to East Jump for me. Why don't you just go up to my apartment and make something tasty for when I get back, hmmm? Would you like that?"

"I'm gonna make you a meal, alright." He grinned his yellow and red teeth. "But you're gonna be there to help me make it. No solo flights here, little lady. We go together."

Slowly, Jazz pulled away from the curb, the engine popping and whirring like a bag of popcorn in a microwave. The got towards the center of the street and began picking up speed.

Jinx sighed, pulling her cap down further in frustration.

She'd been hoping it wouldn't come to this. He already had so many bruises…

Finally, deciding, she glanced over at him.

"You're not buckled in."

"I drive careful."

"And your door isn't even completely shut."

"The lock is jammed."

"And there's something black leaking down from under the wheel."

"For Christ's sake, Jinxie, I….wait, _What_??!"

Jazz raised his feet off the pedals, lifting both his hands from the wheel and glancing down to-

_SMACK!_

Before he could even realize that it was a big load of bogus, Jinx's size 9 steel-reinforced high-heels made contact with the side of Jazz's hard, fuzzy head. With the strength of twenty some-odd years of running from cops, leaping fences, and using the bed-post as leverage; Jinx sent the beefy Italian out the door, rolling head over heels down the street with a very loud, warbling shout.

In an instant, Jinx was in the driver's seat, throwing the car into drive and peeling down the street. She skidded to a halt at the intersection, glancing out her window to check on Jazz.

He was all right.

The car hadn't been moving that fast.

The man was already on his feet, running after her and waving. He had a cut along his brow, maybe a bruised knee or two but that was the extent of it. Poor Jazz. He was going to be mad about this later, but she'd soften him right up when she got back.

This simply wasn't something Jinx needed Jazz for.

This was something she had to do alone.

Jazz eventually got within earshot, puffing a lot for such a well-defined muscle head. "Jinx!" He wheezed. "What the hell are you doing? Get back here with my car you crazy bitch!"

Jinx only gave him a petite little wave over her shoulder, buckling herself in. "Love you too, sweety!" She yelled back and slammed on the gas, sending Jazz's car sputtering down the street towards Old Town in a rolling puff of black smoke, burnt rubber and the angry retort of car horns in the distance.

Jinx was gone.

Off doin' what she did best.

And…in a not too important window, on a not too important floor of the not too important Third Building on the Left in a not too important part of town…

It waited.

It waited…

And slowly…happily…

…

…

…

….began whistling……

Ending Author's Note: Part II coming soon. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!


End file.
